


My fair lad II: The odd couple

by caixa



Series: My Fair Lad [2]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Blow Jobs, Coming Out Gradually, Dirty Talk, Drunk Sex, Emotional Hurt, English Premier League 2007-2008 and 2008-2009 mostly canon, Euro 2008, First Time, Flirting, Footballers' summer holidays, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurities, Jealousy, Kink Exploration, Light Bondage, London Pride, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Makeup Sex, Manchester United, PR crisis, Paparazzi, Real Madrid CF, Recreational Drug Use, Ronnie&Rooney are bezzies, Sequel, Tabloids, Tottenham Hotspur, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-11
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2018-09-16 18:36:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 66,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9284888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caixa/pseuds/caixa
Summary: Cristiano is everything Gareth isn’t. The flashy Portuguese bad boy screams trouble all the way from Manchester to North London. The safest option would be just to forget that one night together.As the title suggests, a sequel to My Fair Lad. A fairytale of two young Premier League footballers who have nothing in common.--Latest updateChapter 24: Resurrection





	1. Anniversary

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote a piece called My Fair Lad as a kind of a spin-off from an idea in my first ever fic. I couldn't let go of the characters and the era so I brought them into this one as well.
> 
> This story continues straight from My Fair Lad so I recommend reading it first if you haven't. I didn't want to write this just adding chapters to that one because I'm pretty proud of that work as an entity in itself plus I want it to keep it's original rating, this one may have sex scenes later on.
> 
> In case you don't read it, here's something about the setting of this story:  
> \- Gareth is 18, Cristiano 22. Gareth plays his first season in Premier League & Tottenham Hotspur, Cris has been with Manchester United 4 seasons already.  
> \- Cristiano has a loft near Canal Street, where most of gay night life is concentrated in Manchester. He also has the house he had in reality.  
> \- Cris took Gareth out after Gareth's debut game in Manchester and Gareth stayed overnight in his loft.  
> \- Gareth has a girlfriend, Cris is single and struggling with his sexual identity.
> 
> I won't make any promises of posting pace, I'll update this whenever I'm inspired. The first chapter was just something I had to get out of my system to be able to focus again on my other historical AU.
> 
> Everything here is fiction.

 

 _I was serenely independent and content before we met  
_ _Surely I could always be that way again_

(Alan Jay Lerner, Frederick Loewe: I’ve Grown Accustomed to Her Face from My Fair Lady)

 

 **Monday, October 1 st 2007  
** **Tottenham Hotspur – Aston Villa**

**White Hart Lane**

 

This is Gareth’s new home. And what a home it is. 125 years of football history is a thought that makes his heart swell with pride and belonging.

He straightens his jersey, made special for the special night, half white, half light blue, just like the flags he has seen people carrying to the stadium.

Gareth does something he almost never does, takes one last glance at his phone he’s put on the shelf of his spot in the dressing room. Oh god. Oh GOD.

After the latest headlines that the tabloids screamed to everybody’s eyes in every newsstand from Manchester to Cardiff to London he decided to keep his distance but this is too much. Every detail in the mirror selfie is meant to count. And the text. 

_Pob lwc cariad!!_

That’s about third of Gareth’s own vocabulary in Welsh apart from Hen Wlad fy Nhadau, the national anthem. He comes from a long line of English speakers and has chosen PE classes over more academic subjects at every possible turn during his school years.

But that is just another thing Cristiano Ronaldo doesn’t know about him and the assumption he’s made is heartwarming. He really, really appreciates the effort.

_Good luck love!!_

Maybe, just _maybe_ this will become the first text in weeks he’s not going to ignore. But reply must wait. There’s good 90 minutes of football to be played. For the shirt, for the flags, for their coach whose job is hanging on a thread, for 125 years of history.

Not so much for somebody who might be watching up north, but maybe, just _maybe_ a bit for him too.

He hears the celebrations honoring old club legends. He hears the crowd starting to cheer and chant as his boots touch the green grass. He jumps up high just to get his inner and outer energy matching, reaches for the hand of the little boy next to him and feels alive.

 

Now! Gareth is in the shot. He jumps up high and turns to his left to reach the hand of the little boy who’s seeing him to the pitch.

The doorbell keeps buzzing, can’t they wait a moment longer? Cristiano is getting a new headset delivered for his PlayStation today, but couldn’t the store have sent it before the game? He keeps his eyes on the TV screen when he goes to answer the door.

“What the fuck, Ronnie?”

Not the usual greeting from a game shop delivery guy. Nope, because it’s Wayne Rooney with a pack of assorted beers in his hand.

“Hello to you too, Rooney”, Cristiano says, steps out of the way and lets his Manchester United teammate in.

“Watching the game? A bit over the top innit?” Wayne asks, glancing over Cristiano’s appearance as he slowly steps past him to the apartment. The Portuguese usually pays great attention on how he looks but now he doesn’t seem his usual self. He doesn’t even smell very fresh, Wayne notices.

Yup, the white Spurs jersey Cristiano is wearing reeks quite clearly of old sweat.

And even to Wayne’s eyes it’s a terrible mismatch with tight black leather trousers.

“Secret transfer plans?” he asks, nodding with his head to the white shirt.

Cristiano snorts out a short laugh, corners of his eyes wrinkling. “Like I’d leave the best club”, he says and sits himself on the sofa, leaving room for Wayne.

Wayne slouches himself on the sofa next to Cristiano, who’s glued his gaze to the TV screen. Cristiano sits leaning forward, elbows on his knees, so it’s easy for Rooney to double-check the back of the smelly game shirt.

“Bale?” he asks, trying to catch Cristiano’s eyes. ”What’s with the shirt? Tell me.”

Cristiano just shrugs and sips water from a bottle in front of him on the coffee table.

“Got it from the game. He asked mine.”

“And you haven’t washed it since?” Wayne lifts his eyebrows and nudges his friend with his knee but he doesn’t get Cristiano to turn his way from the TV.

Cristiano tilts his head from side to side towards his shoulders. “Like you ever do laundry? You know… It’s just.” he mumbles.

“What is it just?” Wayne inquires.

“Nothing. It’s… nothing. Just a shirt, you know? Not important.” Cristiano shuts his lips tightly and frowns like he really needs to focus on the game on the telly.

Clearly not important, Wayne thinks. He offers a beer to Cristiano who just shakes his head. He’s not telling Rooney he shouldn’t either, they’re playing AS Roma tomorrow, just gnaws his lower lip and watches the TV, fidgeting a bit on the sofa, shifting his weight from side to side.

This is fucking interesting, Wayne thinks. He’s never like that.

 

Berbatov jumps for a header and the anniversary game is 1 – 0. Cristiano sees Gareth run to the group celebrating the scorer with a hug, he smiles because he likes seeing the boy’s lean, wiry arms in a close-up.

In fact he has smiled like an idiot every time Gareth has been in a close-up, Wayne observes.

He’s not saying anything, though. He’d like to ask but he knows Ronnie wouldn’t answer, not yet. He has to watch him more, to gather more data to press the Portuguese with. He’ll crack eventually.

The smile on the bronzed face turns to a frown of despair in a couple of minutes as Aston Villa’s Laursen scores two goals and the impolite party guests take the lead. Gareth has been so, so late marking him and Cristiano’s heart breaks for him.

When Villa’s Agbonlahor scores it to 1 – 3 Rooney reaches for the remote control.

“This is going nowhere. Let’s check another game”, he suggests. Cristiano tears the remote away from his hand.

“No!” he shouts furiously and twitches and moans, because at the moment he sees Gareth fall down.

This time Rooney really stops to stare at him and sighs.

“What the fuck, mate, seriously? You are like a girl watching his boyfriend’s game. You got to tell me.”

Cristiano hisses him to be quiet. Camera pans on running Gareth.

“He’s fast, fucking FAST”, Cristiano mumbles mostly to himself.

“Shit, look at you. You’d be watching this game with your dick in your hand if I wasn’t here”, Wayne says. Cristiano turns his face to him for a second of deadpan stare-down-look before turning back to TV. End whistle has been blown to the sad first half, the players are strolling out of the pitch, heads bowed down under the boos from the home crowd who had wished for a more festive anniversary game.

Wayne lets Cristiano watch the slow motion rerun of the only Spurs goal and Bale joining the hug before he attacks. Clearly, stuff is going on and Ronnie will want to talk about it despite himself. Wayne knows he will.

He gets himself another beer from the case he put in Cristiano’s built-in fridge and opens it before he starts.

“It’s official then? You have finally fucked every girl in Europe”, he says.

“What?” Cristiano retorts.

“I said you’ve clearly fucked all the women ‘cause you’re turning to boys”, Wayne repeats.

“Fuck you.”

“You wouldn’t”, Wayne says, slides to the sofa next to Cristiano and nudges him to the elbow with his. “I’m too old for you.”

Cristiano turns his head away from him, biting the corner of his lip to keep it from twitching into a smile.

“Talk”, Wayne says once again. “I heard some gossip but I thought it was just banter.”

“Heard what?”

This is too easy. Ronnie is bursting in his seams, he wants to talk SO much, Wayne thinks.

“You went to talk to him after the game when they were visiting us. Bale. And he didn’t ride back to London on the team bus.”

Cristiano shrugs. “He’s a cool guy.”

He says no more, second half is starting and he focuses his eyes on the telly again.

“He looks fourteen”, Wayne says.

“He looks at least sixteen!” Cristiano replies face aghast.

Wayne collapses on the sofa on his back, rolls from side to side laughing. “Ronnie…” he manages to say, wiping his eyes. “Fucking brilliant, man. You should hear yourself talking.”

“Don’t drink any more, Roo. We have a game tomorrow.”

“Wasn’t gonna. But you, mate”, he says, pointing his finger at Cristiano, “You’re changing the subject.”

Cristiano doesn’t answer. He frowns and moans when Craig Gardner stretches Villa’s lead to 1-4 with a free kick.

Wayne pats his back empatically. “Poor you. Bad day for your underage lover.”

Cristiano is so distracted he falls into the trap like he was the dumbest person on earth. “He’s eighteen!”

Wayne laughs wholeheartedly.

“And not my lover”, Cristiano continues and reaches for the water bottle, cheeks burning.

He needs a walk around. Fucking Wayne Rooney. Intruding on a surprise visit, how did he even know Cristiano would be here, in his city flat, not at home, in his countryside house? He goes to the fridge and gets a can of coke.

Of course he has to be in the kitchen area when he hears _Bale_ on the TV, and then cheering because of a goal. He runs to see it.

“Great cross from the boy, Defoe got it but bounced back, Chimbonda scored”, Wayne shouts from the sofa, no need to, Cristiano is already there.

Robbie Keane doesn’t miss the net from the penalty spot and on the very last minutes of the game Younes Kaboul scores the equalizing goal. He strips off his shirt and runs around the pitch, and the game ends in a white-and-light blue euphoria. 4-4 is like a win after the effort. Cristiano smiles at the sight of Gareth shouting and jumping for joy on his teammates’ backs until he’s almost crushed amidst the celebrating older players but manages to crawl out of the hugging shouting mess, big white teeth shining when he laughs or shouts, probably both, out of sheer exhilaration.

Cris grabs his iPhone from the coffee table and taps a quick text. _GREAT_ _comeback bebe!!_ He almost presses SEND but stops for a moment, biting the inside of his mouth, thinking and adds: _talk later?? Please!_

Wayne tries to peek what Cristiano is writing but doesn’t see the text. He can guess, though.

“Sooo”, the Englishman starts looking at his smiling Portuguese friend, “If he’s not lover, what is he?”

Cristiano squirms on his seat.

“It’s complicated“, he says. “He has a girlfriend.”

“Is that a code word for you bottoming?” Wayne deadpans. Cristiano hits him with a cushion.

“No, shithead. Don’t be a fucking idiot.”

“But you were together after the game, so that’s really happened?” Wayne asks. Cristiano is silent for a moment but can’t think of a reason to lie. “Yeah”, he admits.

“What happened? What did you do with him?” Wayne questions.

Cristiano shrugs. He doesn’t think Gareth would like him to spill the details of their night together to other United players, although he trusts Wayne himself. Rooney teases and mocks him, but that’s just banter between good mates; he’s a loyal friend and would keep a secret like a rock.

“Nothing much.” He’s thinking how to continue when the phone starts vibrating against the wooden surface of the coffee table.

Wayne grabs it in his hand from under Cristiano’s nose and looks at the screen that announces the caller with a photo.

It’s smiling Gareth Bale, blue eyes looking straight at the camera, one cheek leaning on a pillow, the picture framed so that it shows a piece of bare shoulder. He’s been lying on his side, at least shirtless, on a bed, and the photo has been taken by someone who’s been lying facing him, holding the phone on its side to capture the portrait.

“Nothing much?” Wayne asks holding the buzzing phone out of Cristiano’s reach.

“Prick”, Cristiano barks and stands up to get his phone from the shorter man. It stops buzzing but he takes it nevertheless and calls back immediately and closes himself behind the sliding doors in his walk-in closet to talk.

 

“H-hi, Cristiano”, Gareth answers. How small and fragile his voice sounds. Cristiano cups his hands around it, around his phone, like he wants to cradle it.

“Hi”, he says, wanting to ooze every drop of smile on his face into his voice. “What a thriller. Gave us a scare.”

Gareth is silent for a moment but Cristiano can hear his breath so he lets him be, doesn’t urge him to talk.

“Yeah, we didn’t start well”, Gareth says, his voice closer to normal, there is something musical in the note of his accent.

“But it’s better now. Great fight”, Cristiano says.

“Thanks for wishing me luck.”

“Of course. I always wish.”

Gareth lets out a bit of a giggle. “I’m waiting to play United if you do.”

“Haha, good one. Well, you would need the luck then.” Cristiano is still smiling, he lets out a low humming sound to fill the silence.

Gareth hears it and doesn’t mistake it for an electric humming you sometimes get if the connection is bad. It’s like Cristiano was hugging him, keeping that low hum to tickle and vibrate in his ear, in his bones. He suddenly misses him in a way he wishes he didn’t because he is not sure of anything. He is still scared and there are things that make him uncomfortable.

Talking on the phone is one of the things Gareth is not good at, he thinks it’s always so bloody awkward. It loses so much of the aspects of live conversation, how you can normally keep talking when the words don’t come around, with hums, chuckles, smiles and gestures, looking at the other person or looking away.

That’s another thing Cristiano doesn’t know about him. But Gareth is beginning to think that maybe, just _maybe_ he could learn to know.

He rubs the floor of the corridor where he escaped the dressing room noise with the sole of his sandal, he got rid of his boots as soon as he could but the call was one of the first things anyway. He would like to talk about the stuff that makes him scared and uncomfortable but there are not enough words, not on the phone at least.

“Look, I gotta go back. Thanks for calling, Cristiano”, he says.

“I’m happy you answered. I want to hear from you, you know that”, Cristiano says, he’s aware of the despair that’s suddenly leaking in his voice but doesn’t know if Gareth recognizes that.

“Okay.”

“Talk to you later? Promise?”

“I guess we can. Bye, Cristiano. And good luck tomorrow.”

“Promise to watch?”

“I will”, Gareth says, smile leaking in his voice. “I’ll wear my Ronaldo shirt.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I suck at attaching pictures and links!
> 
> Still, little lad 'ere:
> 
> http://static.sportskeeda.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/08/Gareth-Bale-001-1345210310.jpg
> 
> After the game 'ere:
> 
>  
> 
> [Embed from Getty Images](http://www.gettyimages.com/detail/77145528)  
> 
> 
>  
> 
> Bezzies 'ere:
> 
>  
> 
> [Embed from Getty Images](http://www.gettyimages.com/detail/76047100)  
> 
> 
> In an interview 'ere:  
> https://youtu.be/GK2R7qog3Hc 


	2. Cheshire test drive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cristiano invites Gareth to his house. Gareth has a bad feeling about it in advance but decides to go.

Why? Why the hell did I say yes?

Gareth stares at his phone. Cris’ name is on the top spot of the last calls list, like a confirmation of what just happened.

He feels uneasy, he feels in fact totally screwed. But it was just too tempting. “I have a gym, we can work out. And play ball, my lawn is in super condition”, Cristiano has said, assuring him that the day won’t go to waste, in any way.

But it’s the place. _The_ place. Cristiano’s house. Bleep, his phone says, he gets the address for his GPS navigator, Cris really wants him there. Is it the same way he wanted _them_ there?

The tabloids are like watching a train wreck; Gareth knows he should have turned away but no, like hell he has. He’s hogged every word of the seedy tell-all interviews, clicked on the blurry phone photos and videos until every line and pixel burns in his brain, his hands shake and he feels slight nausea.

_Four-hour sex orgy. FIVE GIRLS booked for the wild party._

There’s no reason it should make _Gareth_ feel cheap but it does.

The mental image has haunted him for the whole month. It’s like there’s a large conveyor belt that passes through Cristiano Ronaldo’s bed, Gareth just another item on it, between hookers, models and actresses. And what more, partners he hasn’t even heard of but he can guess, he pictures them in his head – handsome gay men, mature smooth guys who can dress and dance and know what drinks to order.

He should stay out of that world but no, he’s just promised to jump back in. The item on the conveyor belt, shaking and nervous.

Workout and football. He clings to the thought; maybe he can stick to the workout and football; they’ll talk about sports, compare coaches, have a laugh. It will be cool.

 

It was so nice, the last time, the first time. Such a surprise, the invitation right out of the blue; everything sizzling and exciting and new, all the rules bent, a completely different universe, but in the end just so fun and natural.

The next morning he woke up to the synthetic shutter sound of a phone camera, tried to bury his face in the pillow, groaning _no, you can’t be photographing me now_ through a massive set of giggles.

“I promised I’ll get your number first thing in the morning. I want your pic for the contact list”, Cristiano said in a soft but stern voice and Gareth couldn’t believe his luck. It was real, Cristiano Ronaldo wanted to stay in touch with him and oh he was so overwhelmingly happy. The feeling bubbled inside him when he turned to his side and faced the camera, smiled his happiness through his eyes as well as his lips, still swollen from kisses. Cris laid on the other side of the bed, his gorgeous short black curls on the other pillow. He pointed his phone at Gareth, took one picture after another, smiling at the results, at Gareth.

“Come here”, he said, and Gareth rolled over 180 degrees, straight to Cristiano’s lap, his back at him, and Cris turned the camera at them together, took selfies checking the result between each shot until he got the framing right, asked for Gareth’s number and pressed send.

“You get my number from the message”, he said and put the phone down to hug Gareth with both arms. Gareth suddenly realized how close they were, he felt the heat of his own blood as it rose to his cheeks and earlobes flushing them bright pink, he hadn’t meant this, to press his naked butt to the front of Cristiano’s underpants. He shifted to get a bit of space between their bodies, hoping Cristiano wouldn’t notice; Cris held him in a hug, nuzzled the hair on the nape of his neck with his nose, humming into his skin, he felt the sound vibrate in his body.

Gareth heard that same hum in his ear when Cristiano called him after the Aston Villa game. Hearing it took him back on his arms, inside his hug, stripped him naked, made it impossible to decline the invitation to Cristiano’s Cheshire mansion.

The mansion where Cristiano had invited, no, ordered, _bought_ , five prostitutes to party with him and his friends just a day after Gareth had left his bed.

 

Just thinking about it makes him want to throw up. Gareth is not up to it; he is grown-up enough to live by himself and to play professional football for big money but he is not even halfway ready to deal with this kind of emotions.

He is screwed.

 

 

Did he really fear this? Gareth is driving from M1 to M6, the engine of his new car is roaring powerfully but softly and Cristiano talks yet again in his headphones, he keeps calling him all the time: _Where are you now? How’s the traffic? How much time do you have left? Call me if you need instructions!_

And Gareth laughs at him and says that if Cris keeps calling him like that he will miss whatever the navigator is saying and drive astray.

“Do you want me there or do you want me to go to Liverpool?” he asks and they laugh at it. Cristiano gives in. “Ok, I’ll let you drive. See you in a bit”, he says.

It’s just as comfortable to arrive at his place. The gate is open, Cristiano stands on the driveway waving as a greeting, casual in his natural brown leather jacket, white t-shirt and faded jeans. He gestures Gareth to the spot where he can park his car, comes to peek inside, impulsively kisses Gareth on the cheek before he is even out of the car.

Gareth rises from the low-set driver’s seat, stretches his legs and shakes them a bit, thighs and buttocks stiff from the long drive.

Cristiano pushes a button of the small remote control he has on his keychain and the gate starts closing with an electric hum, clicks locked. “Welcome, Gareth”, he says, “Great to see you.”

“You too”, Gareth says, and for that moment it feels exactly like that. He stands there, balanced and happy, looks Cristiano in the eye and smiles a sincere, joyous smile. Cristiano has to pull him into a hug.

Cris guides him round the corner, proud to show his beautifully landscaped back garden, complete with a football goal.

“This is all ours”, he says. “I have my sisters over but I sent them off, a shopping spree in London, private presentations of some designer collections, they’re crazy over stuff like that, and a night at the Claridge’s.”

Gareth chuckles, it makes him feel like he’s a treasured secret.

Or something that needs to be hidden.

He pushes the second thought away. Or tries to; when they enter the house through the kitchen door, it’s already gnawing the edges of his mind. The image of the conveyor belt resurfaces in his brain, he hates it, he hates himself right now. Wasn’t he happy and balanced only two minutes ago?

He warily places his bag on the floor by the door. He tries to compose himself, looks at Cristiano on his side, smiles at him but he feels that the smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Wanna drink something?” Cristiano asks.

“Water’s nice, please”, Gareth says.

Cristiano gets some from the fridge.

“So, how’s it been? You’ve scored your first goals, congratulations. And in the North London derby, not the easiest spot.”

Gareth shrugs. “Thanks. Didn’t make a difference there, though.” His second Premier League goal remained their only one in that game to Arsenal’s three. But it’s nice that Cristiano has kept an eye on him. “Unlike you”, Gareth continues, touching Cristiano’s chest with his fingers, “The couple last games… just… wow.”

Cristiano smiles a pleased smile. He takes a sip of his bottle, leaning back on a kitchen counter and extends his hand to touch Gareth’s hair.

Cristiano’s fingers feel so good, electrifying, a reminder of everything that happened and almost happened. They both take a step closer, meet in the middle; Cristiano moves his hand from Gareth’s hair to his chin, takes it between three fingers, it’s so smooth, he leans in and kisses his lips. He doesn’t need to bow down one bit, Gareth is almost his height. He doesn’t know why he likes it but he does. _We could have such an even fight_ pops in his mind and he chuckles at the thought against Gareth’s lips.

“What are you laughing about?” Gareth whispers, not taking his lips away.

“Nothing, nothing”, Cristiano whispers into his mouth, “I’m just so happy to have you here.”

Gareth’s brain starts to scan all the possible connotations of those words. He tries to keep kissing Cris just to erase too much thinking out of his head but has to give up, pull out of the kiss. He hopes Cristiano can lead the conversation to some safe place because Gareth can’t think of anything to say right now.

 

“You wanna hit the gym already?” Cristiano asks. “You can go change if you want, I have lots of shorts and stuff if you didn’t bring yours”, he continues, pulling Gareth by the hand out of one of the kitchen doors to inside of the house.

Gareth just shrugs. Cris leads him through an ornate dining room and they enter a living room that’s quite opposite in style. Gareth recognizes the place immediately and his heart sinks.

_Trendy, modern furniture. 6 ft wide plasma TV. Huge white sofa._

“…Or we can watch something if you like or play a game”, he hears Cristiano say, he has to answer him something.

“Is this where you entertain your hookers?” he hears himself say and wants to die. _NOT that! Something but not THAT!_ he scolds himself.

Cristiano gives him a tired look. “I got to hear a bit about that, thanks”, he says dryly.

Gareth looks back at him. “I wasn’t too happy reading about it, either”, he retorts.

It rubs Cristiano the wrong way, Gareth can see a dark veil of defensiveness rising up to his eyes. Oh no.

“Oh yeah?” Cristiano asks. He turns face to face to Gareth, looks deep in his eyes, biting the inside of his cheek. “So tell me, are you still dating?”

Gareth nods. “Yes.”

“Did you tell her you’re coming here? Did you tell her you were at my place?”

Gareth shakes his head, eyes burning. “No.”

Cristiano tilts his head to the side once, impatiently. “Well I’m single”, he shouts, stepping  closer to Gareth, pointing his finger at his chest. “Do I owe you something? No! Do you own me? No! And you dare to come here and judge me!”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to…” Gareth starts, “I just…”

“You just what?” Cristiano asks sharply.

Gareth gets irritated. “I tried to tell you how I felt. I was talking about _my_ feelings. Everything is not always about you, Cristiano Ronaldo.”

“You could talk about your feelings in some other way than moralizing me! You’re a fucking hypocrite, Gareth Bale.”

Gareth’s cheeks are burning. He feels mortified. He has been here for what, five minutes? And Cristiano is already shouting at him and calling him names.

He knew it, he was wrong to come here. He is not staying one minute longer.

He starts walking and guesses right, he comes to the entrance hall with wide winding staircases.

 

Gareth storms out of the front door. Cristiano follows him to the stairs just to see him get in his car and start it.

The driver’s side window rolls down, Gareth sticks his head out. “Open the gate!” he shouts at Cristiano.

“No! Your stuff is still here, come back!” Cristiano shouts back.

“Just throw them in the trash!”

“Don’t be stupid, please!”

“I was stupid to come here! Open the gate, now!”

Cristiano stands on the top of the stairs, clenches his jaw tight, presses his teeth and lips shut, crosses his arms and shakes his head slowly from side to side. Gareth changes gear to reverse and rolls his car back, changes the gear again and presses the gas.

No. The idiot is not trying to crash the gate, is he? Cristiano runs down the stairs, waving his arms in the air.

“Gareth, please, no! It’s a safety gate. It’s reinforced steel! It wrecks the car! You’ll hurt yourself!”

Apparently Gareth hears him. He eases the gas, then turns off the engine. Cristiano walks down the driveway.

Gareth sits behind the steering wheel, hands in his lap, looking down. He looks crushed.

A little boy in a machine that has more muscle than he can handle. Did Cris look like that himself, on his first season, in his first car? They’ve all been such kids when they started, so many of them still are.

Cristiano squats down by the driver’s side window. He changes his mind, it’s time to be real, to the verge of being ridiculous.

He moves his feet and kneels on the driveway by the car door, places his hands in the open window.

“Please don’t go. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I hurt you. I didn’t mean to.”

Gareth keeps his teary eyes down. He wrings his hands together in his lap, stares at them and sighs.

Cristiano reaches for his cheekbone with his fingertips but Gareth nudges away from the touch.

“Don’t.”

Cristiano pulls his hand back, places it again on the car window.

“Look, Gareth, I want to be real with you. Don’t leave like this. Talk to me. Come back inside please.”

Gareth swallows hard. He lifts his head, glances warily to his side at Cristiano.

Cristiano feels he has to apologize one more time but he can’t bring himself to say it. He tilts his head, trying to catch Gareth’s eyes. “Come on”, he says.

Gareth looks him in the eye for a split second, turns his face away and looks straight ahead in silence. He touches a lever and the car window starts rising shut. Cristiano is quick to pull his fingers out of the way.

Gareth clutches the car keys.

 

He pulls them out of the ignition. He rises out of the car, not even looking at Cristiano who has stood up and taken a step back. He starts walking back towards the house, hands in his pockets, shoulders crouched to front, dragging his feet.

Cristiano catches him with a few running steps. He wants to wrap his arm across Gareth’s back, pull him in a side-hug and meddle his fingers in his unruly hair, press the boy’s head tight to his neck and cheek. But he doesn’t dare, he’s afraid the thin thread of trust is too fragile to touch.

 

Gareth sits on the bottom step of the large curving staircase in the spacious entrance hall, staring down on the marble floor. Cristiano sits himself next to him, choosing his place carefully, not too close but within reach. His heart aches for the boy who’s falling to pieces next to him; he touches Gareth’s shoulder lightly and when his hand is not shaken off, he dares to run his fingertips through strands of his hair.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks.

Gareth wants to, but at the same time he can’t think of anything harder.

“Um”, Gareth starts, keeping his head down. Christ, he’s about to cut his chest open, tear his heart out and place it on a platter, open for ridicule. “I read papers, you know?” he glances to his side, at Cris, and looks back down, rubbing his fingertips to each other. “And… last time, at your place, it was a big deal for me, I never…” he sighs, why does this have to be so painful?

Cristiano waits patiently, looking closely at Gareth’s face, catching his gaze every time he glances straight at him, which is not often and not for long.

“Then I read what happens just a day or so after that and… I feel so small and stupid. Played. Like a toy thing. Just another…” Gareth searches for a word, waving his hand in the air like it would bring it about. “You know.” He flutters his eyelids quickly, to keep the tears away.

“Oh Gareth”, Cristiano says, stroking his hair, touch for the lack of words. “I’m sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry for acting so stupid. You were nice to ask me here. And I… I thought I can handle it. I thought I can be like it’s no big deal.” Gareth is so embarrassed, ashamed of his feelings, the insecurity, the unjust jealousy, ashamed of acting them out like today.

But he’s stepped over the edge of the cliff, he’s started pouring his stupid childish heart out already. So he continues. “I thought I would be OK here. But then I recognize all the places, I looked at all those stupid pics and those fucking video clips and… man, I shouldn’t be telling you this”, he shakes his head, buries it in his hands, tucks his fingers in his hair, clenching his fists to physically force himself not to cry.

Cristiano wishes he could turn back time. He can’t be half as pure as this sweet kid deserves but if he could undo that last party he would, he didn’t do it to hurt him but he could have thought that it might.

He’s not saying he was wrong to get angry at Gareth. He had the right to say Gareth doesn’t own him. But he understands Gareth’s feelings, and he’s sorry he has made him feel bad.

Gareth turns his face to him a bit, head still hanging down, looking at Cris from the corner of his eye.

“Sorry I’m such a baby”, he says.

Cristiano pulls him into a hug. “Baby”, he murmurs in his hair, like an echo of Gareth’s words. “You sweet baby. Never change.”

He’d like to hold Gareth like that for a long time but he lets him go softly and stands up from the staircase. “Let’s kick that ball a bit before it gets dark”, he says, extending his hand to Gareth, “Come on.”

 

October air is chilly, Gareth has noticed it earlier and digs a warmer jacket out of his bag. It’s his NT gear. Cristiano smiles at it when they step outside.

“I appreciate you wearing red for the occasion”, he says.

Gareth pats the crest on his chest. “Giving it all for the dragon”, he smiles.

As it turns out, he really has to use all he has. Cris is not taking it easy: he has to win every ball, get every free kick in, outdo Gareth in any trick. It’s exhausting but fun, it’s challenging in a good way, the exercise and competition fires a completely different set of spark in the air. It’s fair and physical and the adrenaline washes away the bitter aftertaste of the argument. It’s just two guys and one ball; shouts and laughs, crisp air, rosy cheeks.

It turns more and more to a contact sport, harassing and tackling as perfect excuses to get closer. Cristiano presses on, Gareth manages to kick the ball out of his feet but slips down to the ground, flat on his back, and Cristiano throws himself deliberately on top of him, pins him to the green lawn.

Gareth relaxes his arms down on both sides of his head. His eyes reflect the light of the sky, pupils small black dots in the middle of pale blue. Cristiano’s weight is on his body and he bends his knee to the side, Cris feels the hips move under his and he knows that Gareth notices how hard he is getting from feeling the boy so close.

“Comfortable?” Gareth asks, his face looks exactly the same as the first time they met, when Gareth caught Cristiano’s eyes checking out his body a little too long; it’s smug and amused and the thing Cristiano recognizes but still isn’t sure how to read but he knows he likes it. The paradox underneath him: completely surrendered, totally in control.

Cristiano leans closer, Gareth’s pupils dilate when Cristiano shadows his face, leaning his elbows to the lawn between Gareth’s head and his arms, hands on Gareth’s hair. This is not a game anymore, this is real.

Cristiano licks his lips and looks at him, taking deep breaths.

“Let’s go inside”, he says and helps Gareth up.

They walk across the green lawn slowly: serious, determined, calm on the outside, not touching, not even looking at each other. Hearts racing, heads buzzing.

It’s not a conveyor belt when you’re walking on your own two feet, Gareth tells himself.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading sweeties!
> 
> Now please help me on this one, I'm in need of encouragement.
> 
> I honestly don't know how to go on from this point; I have the beginning for a chapter that'll be something around 4th to 6th but how to get there from here... I haven't figured out how to take the steps.
> 
> So please, tell me anything, is Gareth too much of a weepy baby here, what you like and don't like, etc.
> 
> And a couple of things: the link to the Sunday Mirror story referred here is in My Fair Lad end notes. And iPhone didn't have a front-facing camera until 2010.


	3. Whole lotta love, actually

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, I have to thank the sweetest reader, k7ng, for lovely support and a really helpful comment that got me ahead with this story. Thank y’all for comments and kudos, I write a lot but it doesn’t mean it’s not helpful to feel that someone actually reads and likes the result.
> 
> Second, don’t take the chapter title too literally, especially if you love the movie Love, Actually – Gareth is not going to go all Colin Firth and fly to Portugal to chase Cristiano in this one, it’s merely a signal that a part of this chapter happens in Christmas time.
> 
> Third, I had to transfer Aaron Ramsey to Arsenal half a year earlier than in real life.
> 
> Fourth, “Whole Lotta Love” by Led Zeppelin and “Fuck Time” by Green Day set the mood for the beginning of this chapter. Not linked here but you can look them up if you like.
> 
> Enjoy reading!

 

It’s not the best timing.

Gareth could come to his senses and say it earlier, before their clothes are a breadcrumb trail from Cristiano’s back door to the shower, before they kiss under the hot running water in a way that is all tongues and teeth and wandering hands over the slippery-when-wet skin. Before Cristiano slams Gareth to the inside of his bedroom door, before Gareth pushes himself off the door and starts walking Cristiano backwards towards the bed; before they collapse on the luxurious duvet, kiss and roll and crawl and wrestle their way to the middle of the bed.

But that’s when it hits him, under covers, their legs entwined and lips almost touching, panting erratic breaths in each other’s open mouths, his hands on Cristiano’s neck and ass (oh god how perfect), Cristiano’s fingers wrapped around his cock (oh god so achingly hard).

_This is not right._

“Oh”, Gareth starts, “OH, ooh, Cris.” Now it’s not working really well, he has to physically pull back to get himself to say it.

“Cris”, he says, “I’m sorry.”

Gareth shuffles back a little, Cristiano’s hand follows him and it distracts his thinking but he does not give up. He lifts his torso leaning on one elbow.

“Like you said, I’m still in a relationship. I should do this the right way. This is not… the way.”

Cristiano sighs. This sucks. But that’s how these things go, if he’s asked to stop, he’ll have to stop, no matter how far the things have progressed already, he knows that. He just doesn’t want to. He wants Gareth. Now. He keeps his grip, leans over to kiss Gareth’s shoulder, his chest, his bicep and gives a pleading look from his brown eyes. “Can’t you call her now and break up? Please?”

Gareth pushes him gently away by his forehead. “Cris, no.”

“Text message?”

“I said the _right_ way”, Gareth scolds him softly.

“You can call her. Please. Say you have another man’s hand on your dick right now and his mouth on it in a minute and thank her for your time together.”

“You’re a monster, Cris. Stop.”

“Tell her that you are going to have a huge cock up your ass and you know you will not be satisfied with anything she has to offer sexually after the experience.”

“Oh, it’s huge now?”

“You’ve seen it, baby. It wants you. I want you. Just this one time? Tell her tomorrow and say you’re sorry. Maybe she doesn’t mind if it’s a guy.” Cristiano starts stroking Gareth’s length and it’s almost too much, why doesn’t he just stop?

Because it’s Gareth’s job. He’s the one who’s dating someone else and if he wants to say no, he has to. He pulls back and it feels _awful_ , like no, part of him is a bit intimidated by the prospect of Cristiano fucking him but yes, most of him screams _yes I want it to happen_.

Cristiano lets out the most disappointed moan, a wounded lion growling, he rolls on the bed, to his back, back to his stomach, pouting at Gareth, eyes so dark.

Gareth has to place his hand on his black curls, stroke him slowly, calmingly, down the nape of his neck, down the massive sculpted muscles of his back.

He’s so unreally beautiful.

Gareth sighs.

“Sorry. Turn around, Cris, baby.” He leans in to kiss Cristiano’s cheek and squirms back closer. Cristiano turns to his side. Gareth reaches down with his hand, looking Cristiano sincerely in the eye. “I’ll help you, okay? It’s not your fault I didn’t speak sooner.”

Gareth is too kind, he breaks Cristiano’s heart but he’s not going to complain. He feels the long fingers grabbing his cock and gasps, the tip of the thumb rubbing the surface of the slick hard mushroom head, tracing the slit to the underside, a swirling motion; fingers wrapping around the shaft, testing how to squeeze, starting to stroke it up and down; Gareth’s eyes in his eyes, on his face, watching his reactions.

The sweet boy kissing his trembling lips, his hand picking up the pace, tightening and loosening the squeeze in the rhythm of his strokes, thumb brushing over the now leaking slit, spreading the slippery liquid over the head. “I got you, babe”, whispering so close, the free hand on his neck, drawing their foreheads together, soft kisses on his cheek, on the corner of his mouth, sucking his neck, his earlobe. “Fuck, Cris, you’re too beautiful. Let me feel you. I’m right here.”

Cristiano starts fucking into his hand, Gareth moves his other hand from his neck to his ass, grabs it, fingers digging into the flesh, kisses him hard, jerks him harder and boy if he doesn’t know what he’s doing he’s guessing pretty well. Cris comes kissing him, sprays the hot pearly white on the hand, on both of them.

 

Premier League has made Gareth so… busy. Emma had thought, honestly, that when Gareth gets his driver’s license they’d meet a lot more often than before and in the summer, during the pre-season, they really did. But the later the autumn passes, the fewer times he drives back to his parents’ house in Wales.

Emma complains it even to Gareth’s mother when she runs into her in a shop. “That’s how it is, luv, you know it, these are packed months, with the Euro qualifiers and all. He really needs to be incorporated in the club, not miss any practices, take care of resting properly. It’s just different right now”, Debbie says and Emma won’t argue, she can only hope that they will endure through this time.

Emma thinks they would already fit together as a real couple, as a family, she and Gareth, but her mother says she should grow up first: finish school, get her first real job on her own, know how to live on her own money and stand on her own feet before getting a place together with any kind of a boyfriend. Not that she doesn’t trust Gareth, but your first real love so seldom is the one to really last a lifetime.

Divorcee talking, Emma thinks secretly.

Gareth’s mother suggests that maybe they could go see some game together, it’s been long since the last time. She could ask Gareth what would be a good day, a day when a dinner together after the match would fit his schedule.

Emma holds back her will to frown at it, she would have thought that by now Gareth would run that kind of arrangements first through his girlfriend, but apparently he’s still closer to his mother.

Emma’s own date plans with Gareth are often overrun by football in some way or the other, and dates tend to be short, few and far between. Saturday game nights in London have, in fact, been some of the best date nights. Her sister has given her a lift to London, watched and cheered on the stands by her side and waited with her until Gareth comes out of the stadium. She has left Emma with him, driving back home for the night.

Emma has had Gareth all to herself, he has driven her to his London home in his fine sports car, they’ve had dinner together and spent the night in his bed. On Sunday morning he has made her coffee and they’ve driven all the way to Cardiff to his or her parents’ house for Sunday lunch, their young faces beaming with quiet, secret happiness.

Time goes by. When Halloween decorations start to crawl their way to shop shelves, Emma feels it’s now or never: if they don’t have the family game-and-dinner date settled before October ends, the Christmas break will postpone it to the next year. That would be too much.

On the other hand, she awaits the Christmas break. She’ll get her degree then and they can really start planning their future together. But it’s two months ahead! How pathetic has her life become?

 

“How is Kazakhstan even Europe? It’s the fucking Borat country”, Cristiano complains walking down the aisle of an airplane and slouches down to his seat next to Nani. They’re off to the shores of the Caspian Sea, Portugal plays Azerbaijan and Kazakhstan in their Euro qualifying campaign.

“You got something there”, Nani points at his neck.

Cristiano places his hand over the spot Nani has touched and a smile warms and lights up his face from somewhere deep within. Gareth, his sweet hot fierce mouth.

Nani shakes his head, he can’t keep track of Cristiano’s girls and doesn’t really even want to.

“Has anybody you really like ever given you a handjob just to be nice?” Cristiano asks so pensively that his teammate thinks it’s not the kind of question that really awaits an answer. Nani has witnessed his share of Cristiano’s sex life and that one sounds – well, more conventional and vanilla than anything Cristiano would boast about.

Nani shrugs. “I don’t know who you’re talking about but you told your sisters are over from Portugal…” he says and Cristiano punches his arm a bit too hard to be playful. “Asshole”, Cris retorts and Nani laughs at him. “Okay, I guess Wayne Rooney is a helpful friend, then.”

Cristiano pouts at him but not for long before melting back to the pensive inner smile.

 

Gareth has flights to Cyprus and Italy but the games are quite painful experiences for Wales. They lose to Cyprus. They barely beat the bottom-ranked San Marino; Gareth is setting up the first goal but later ends up shouting face to face with San Marino’s Matteo Vitaioli and gets a yellow card; a naked man interrupts the game running to the pitch; coach Toshack beats up his players in the media for being lazy, spoiled and pampered; the works.

He stays in Cardiff after the return flight, in his old room at his parents’ house. He’s usually exhausted after trips like that but now he lingers awake downstairs long after his normal bedtime.

His mother sorts out travel clothes for laundry, Gareth watches her absentmindedly, hands her items from the suitcase. When she’s done, she heads to the kitchen and puts on the kettle. Gareth follows her, hovers about the counter.

His mother looks at him, head tilted to the side, straight blond hair brushing down on her shoulder.

“What’s up, Gareth?” she asks in a quiet, sympathetic voice. “Is something bothering you?”

Gareth shifts his position, he doesn’t really dare even nod his head for a yes but he is aching to talk. He doesn’t know where to start even though he has gone this through in his mind time and time again.

But now that he’s here, facing his mother, he’s not sure of what to say, what to leave out. Or if his mother is the right person to talk to, after all.

But there’s no-one else, either.

Debbie puts tea bags in two mugs and pours boiling water over them. She puts the mugs on the kitchen table, sits down and pushes the opposite chair with her foot to slide it out from under the table.

Gareth takes milk out of the fridge, pours some in his tea mug, sits down.

“It’s been quite a year, dear”, Debbie says, looking at her son.

Gareth feels she’s giving him an easy out, he could just start to talk about anything, the transfer, the buzz around the Spurs manager, living in London, the international games.

“Yeah, it has.” Gareth stirs his tea mug and fishes the teabag out with a spoon. “But it’s not just that.”

“What is it, Gareth?” Debbie asks.

Gareth glances to his sides, squirms on his seat, relaxes finally and looks at his mother.

“I don’t know where to start. But I… there’s a thing I need to figure out.”

“What kind of thing? Are you in trouble?” Debbie asks.

Gareth realizes he’s talking too vaguely.

“No, it’s more… on a personal level.” Christ, now he sounds too official. “I mean… I don’t know if I should be seeing Emma any more.”

“Well, she said some time ago that she’s not seeing you as often as she’d like.”

“Really?” Gareth is surprised his girlfriend would talk to his mother about it.

“I ran into her and she just mentioned it. But frankly, shouldn’t you be talking about this with her? If you’re too busy to be dating?”

Gareth doesn’t know if his mother really thinks that’s the reason or if she’s just giving him an out, again.

“It’s not that”, he blurts. “I’ve met someone and I’m interested but I don’t know if it’s serious. If I trash my old life and it’s not worth it, you know. I wouldn’t want to lose a good thing. I don’t want to hurt her. Especially if it’s for nothing.”

Debbie nods her head slowly. She has been sure this day would come, with Gareth’s success he’s bound to be surrounded by pretty and enticing WAG wannabes, no doubt even somebody worthy of winning his heart.

“I see. It’s a risk and you need to think if you want to take it. You may end up wanting your old life back but once you’ve moved on yourself, your old life doesn’t exist anymore. She has every right to move on as well, you know. But I’m glad you take it seriously and don’t think about seeing the other girl behind her back.”

Gareth stands up and puts his empty mug in the dishwasher. Suddenly he realizes how tired he is; he wonders if he should clarify that it’s not a girl he’s interested in, but that’s a whole another issue, and such a big one, that he doesn’t really have the strength to expand the conversation to that direction tonight.

His mother steps up and hugs him from behind. “You were right, dear. You really have a thing to figure out. Just know that I trust your good heart. I love you and you can always come back home to us, no matter what.”

 

Emma doesn’t take it well.

Could be that Gareth’s timing is a bit off, again. Emma might be anticipating something different coming from her boyfriend, given the circumstances.

She watches Wales play against Republic of Ireland on the Millennium Stadium in Cardiff together with Gareth’s family and Mrs. Bale eyes at her curiously every time she thinks Emma doesn’t notice. She goes on doing that during the family dinner in a nice restaurant.

Gareth is quieter than he usually is after a game and asks Emma to stay behind after the dinner, saying he’ll drive her home.

Is this finally the payoff for the past months they’ve barely seen each other? What if he invites her on a posh Christmas holiday on some secluded tropical island? Or gives her the keys to his London home and says it’s her home, too? If it’s a ring, she’ll have to say no, she’s too young.

But no, he drops a bomb. The bomb.

“What do you mean, time apart?” Emma screams in his car. “Can’t you even say you’re dumping me if that’s what it is?”

“Please, Emma, I need to figure out something by myself. I need time alone.”

“Time alone. I don’t believe you for a minute. ‘He’s a smashing lad, Premier League will not change Gareth, he is a Cardiff boy, he is very mature’”, Emma scoffs in a mocking voice. “Fuck you, Gareth, you’re so fake!”

 

She throws away every present Gareth has given her. She won’t let anybody watch TV or listen to the radio near her for the next two months: if Gareth’s name isn’t accidentally mentioned there, they play Wham’s _Last Christmas_ and it makes her cry every time she hears it.

 _I gave you my heart, you gave it away_. Damn you George Michael for knowing how it feels.

 

“Why aren’t you coming, Ronnie? Won’t be as much fun without you”, Wayne Rooney says.

Cristiano smiles his lazy lopsided smile. “I promised to be somewhere else”, he says.

His actual promise has been this: _Next time I hear the words ‘Rio knows some girls’ I will party with you and you alone_.

So, when the papers scream the next Manchester United –related sex scandal the only mention of Cristiano Ronaldo concerns his absence from the notorious Christmas festivities. He is not sorry about it, not one bit, because at the moment his favourite kind of party happens in his bed with one hand-picked Welsh boy.

 _I’m gonna give you every inch of my love_ , Cristiano murmurs in Gareth’s ear and when he does, man, the way his boy wiggles and shakes and shouts and moans in response makes him want to do it all over again. So he does. They have all the time in the world.

 

Tottenham Hotspur gives Gareth his next Christmas present. They buy Chris Gunter from Cardiff City and announce the transfer on Christmas Eve.

Less than a month later another Welsh boy follows Gunter to London. Aaron Ramsey joins Arsenal on such a short notice that the best option for his accommodation is becoming flatmates with Chris.

Gareth is suddenly sure he has made the right decision. Come what may with Cristiano, he would not have time for a girlfriend anyway.

 

 


	4. Warm fudge and cotton candy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the DJ puts on Marvin Gaye and you can’t slow dance with your lover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is mainly meant to be a piece of cute fluff because I’m afraid some drama and awkward situations will be ahead.
> 
> The party where this is set is completely my creation for story purposes.
> 
> I hope you enjoy chapter 4.

 

Barclays Bank hosts a 2008 kick-off party in London before the first games in January. It is optional for the players to participate but for some strongly encouraged, which clearly indicates that the event is arranged for PR reasons.

Two different PR reasons, that is; it’s a chance for clubs to show off their January transfers and for the whole sport to show that professional footballers are indeed capable of having fun and conducting themselves in perfectly presentable manner.

Theme of the party subtly depicts clean-cut innocence. Décor refers vaguely to 50’s seaside resorts with its pastel colours, as does the non-threatening musical soundtrack that consists mainly of the softer side of 50’s and 60’s rock’n’roll, pop and surf music classics. Non-alcoholic beverage options are widely displayed on the bars around the dimly lit party venue.

Media has a 30 minute photo-op time in the beginning of the event, during which everybody knows they have to put up their best behaviour.

 

_Coming with Wayne, cu there_

Gareth almost kisses the phone before he puts it away, quickly checking that Chris and Aaron, with whom he shares a taxi ride, haven’t been looking over his shoulder when he’s reading Cristiano’s text. He’s not exactly sure why he’s so shy about it; he’s constantly thrilled about his relationship to Cris but has not yet told about it to anybody.

If he can help it, British press is not going to be the first ones to receive the news, anyway. So he has to try and ignore Cris as long as the cameras are in there.

 

Hanging on through the 30 minute media time is not that bad, Gareth notices. He bumps into lots of people who want to have a word with him. Players he knows or almost knows, the bank’s PR executives, some reporters.

One of the chatters is Theo Walcott, Gareth’s friend, roommate and teammate from the years of growing up in Southampton, now Aaron’s new Arsenal teammate.

“Shitty thing you’re injured. How long do you have to stay out of the games?” he asks.

“At least a month. It sucks. We’ll see how the ankle is in February”, Gareth tells. It’s such a disappointment to be held back on his first season, just when he feels he should prove himself worthy of the transfer.

Theo shifts his weight from one foot to another, like trying to find a sufficient balance to talk about another unpleasant thing.

“So… it didn’t work out for you and Emma. I was sorry to hear that. Mel was a bit shocked when Emma told her”, he says.

Gareth accepts it with a shrug and vaguely mumbling something. It’s not too nice news to hear that Emma’s talking to people she apparently considers to be their friends as a couple. A couple of double dates with Theo and Melanie have clearly been enough to put them in that category in her eyes.

He wouldn’t want the possible gossip link cause him to be wary of Theo regarding Cristiano, but it’s too early to worry about that. For as long as Gareth can see, they’re keeping things private anyway.

Surely they can manage that.

 

Cristiano and Wayne pose graciously in front of the sponsor’s photo backdrop, answer questions smiling politely and take champagne glasses (real ones, not from the other half of the tray with the virgin option) to kill out the boring media time as photographers helicopter around them and the other players like bees around a flower bench.

Cristiano is not really edgy but he laughs less and his laughs are shorter than usual. It would be funny to watch and tease him when he’s so obviously nervous but Wayne has come to the conclusion that his friend’s newest obsession has stretched over a longer period of time than is actually funny (Christ, it’s over two months from that weird game watching day and even then it had been going on over a month, so this is… into its second quarter of a year, Wayne counts).

“So tell me, Ronnie”, Wayne starts once they’re standing safe distance from anyone else, “Did you go gay first and then move to Canal Street of was it the opposite?” It’s so lame Wayne is almost ashamed of himself but you have to start a conversation from something, don’t you?

“Don’t be a bigot, Rooney”, Cristiano retorts but softens it with a chuckle and a nudge on Wayne’s elbow.

“A bigot, Jesus”, Wayne mutters, looks down smiling and shaking his head.

Cristiano suddenly spots a perfect excuse to move closer to the other end of the room, where he’s noticed Gareth standing from the minute they got in.

“Giggsy’s there”, he says to Wayne. “Let’s go talk to him.”

 

“Isn’t it half of Wales national team here?” Wayne says placing his hand on his older United teammate’s shoulder.

“Well hello, came all the way from Manchester? We could’ve shared a ride”, Giggsy says and continues to introduce Cristiano and Wayne to Aaron, Chris and Gareth like they didn’t know who they are, and the other way round.

“So, are you dirty old man already corrupting these innocent boys? Don’t believe anything this bloke tells you”, Cristiano says, pointing at Giggsy from above.

Ryan is quick and sneaky with his comeback. “Oh yes, I was only telling them how you wanted to know all about our Gareth here”, he says, causing a moment of bemusement when Gareth blushes and Cristiano gazes down at his shoes. The two glance quickly each other, both biting their lip like mirror images of each other and look down again.

Wayne moves the conversation quickly to other subjects like the boringness of the music played, upcoming fixtures, the death of Jimmy Stewart and weather.

If those two obvious babies could just start dating officially instead of acting like a couple of fifth graders in a school disco he would have it so much easier. Right now Wayne sees before him half a season of saving their confused puppy-love asses and he fears it’s going to be a long five months.

He needs a drink.

 

Cris and Gareth don’t exactly notice where everybody disperses. Aaron wants Chris to meet somebody, Wayne wanders off to the bar now that the media time is over, cameras and journos seen politely out of the door and sent back to their editing offices.

“You coming over tonight?” Gareth asks quietly, hands buried deep in his pockets, kicking the carpet of the room idly with his right foot toes.

“Why not”, Cris answers, holding back his biggest smile, tucking his fingertips in the tight back pockets of his jeans because he just itches to touch Gareth and he can’t.

 

Something about them catches Chris Gunter’s eye from across the room as a slow, soft rhythm melts down from the speakers.

Cristiano recognizes the song from the first words and leans in to whisper something in Gareth’s ear.

_I’ve been really tryin’, baby_

Gareth lifts his face, a smile draws lines on his cheeks; his blue eyes zigzag back and forth Cristiano’s face from his eyes to his lips and back to his eyes.

_Tryin’ to hold back this feeling… for so long_

Cristiano leans in to whisper some more, his other hand on Gareth’s shoulder for balance, Gareth seems to listen intensively and says something back, talking in Cristiano’s ear, covering his mouth with his hand.

_And if you feel like I feel, baby  
_ _then c’mon, ooh, c’mon_

Cristiano listens to him smiling and chuckling.

When Gareth stops speaking, he lowers his hand from his mouth slowly, as if using the movement as an excuse to land his fingers on Cristiano’s shoulder. He detaches them from it just as slowly, grazing the sleeve of Cristiano’s jacket with his knuckles like accidentally.

_Let’s get it on…  
_ _ah, baby, let’s get it on_

Cristiano glues his eyes back in Gareth’s and for some time they just stand there, a quiet smirk lingering on their faces.

Chris Gunter leans in to say something in Aaron Ramsey’s ear. Aaron looks at the direction their group stood some minutes ago, where there’s now only their Welsh friend chatting with United’s Portuguese star player. Aaron watches them for a while and replies to Chris, shaking his head and wrinkling his nose as a sign of disbelief.

Chris tilts his head to study the duo a little more and turns back to talk in Aaron’s ear, nodding his head vigorously to emphasize his words. Aaron shrugs his shoulders and offers his hand for a handshake.

After seeing the pleased smirk that spreads on Gunter’s face he takes the last, wary look over his shoulder but the spot is empty; they are not there anymore.

_So come on, come on, come on, come on baby  
_ _Stop beatin’ round the bush_

A locked toilet is not the best dance floor for Marvin Gaye music but this is one of those times when great company makes up for the poor surroundings, Cristiano thinks and lets his lips melt into Gareth’s.

_Oh baby, let’s get it on._

They find Wayne by the bar, very drunk. Cristiano sighs.

“Man, look at you. We should be getting out of here, sure you can walk?” he says to the Englishman. “I’ll call our driver, he can take us to your place and he’ll drive then to Manchester and see Wayne to his home”, he continues, pointing his words to Gareth.

Ryan Giggs emerges out of nowhere.

“I’ll take Rooney in my car and see him home safe and sound, okay? I’m heading back to Manchester anyway. You boys take Ronnie’s car and do the dirty deeds you need to”, he says winking his eye at Cristiano.

“Thanks”, Cristiano says. Gareth just nods his head speechless, face aghast, pale eyes wide as plates, remembering only after a while to close his mouth.

Giggsy smiles at him reassuringly. “Don’t look so frightened, son, no worries”, he says, quickly moving his fingertips in front of his mouth. “Lips sealed”.

 

Ryan's car is already there and he guides Wayne Rooney out patiently.

When Cristiano’s car arrives, he puts his hand on Gareth’s back, guides him to the car and opens the door for him. Gareth tells his address; Cristiano takes his hand and gives it a light squeeze.

“Don’t be afraid”, he mouths silently.

 

Cristiano attaches his phone to Gareth’s stereo and browses for a while. They dance once more to _Let’s get it on_ in the darkness, slow and close, immersed in a deep, wet kiss.

When the song changes to _Sexual Healing_ , Gareth doesn’t even listen to the music any more. He dances to the touch of Cristiano’s hands, to the rhythm of his swaying hips.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Totally off topic: I’m so glad Mateo Kovacic exists (he’s not here, sorry, I’m just happy he exists and plays for Real Madrid). Some months ago I read a comment about Gareth Bale that said "He's a workhorse and a half", and those words often pop in my mind when I see Kovacic play.
> 
> And I started to write a deliciously filthy porn chapter to this fic that will take place over three years later so I need to write my way at least up to there in case I try to keep this chronological. This is a marathon! Phew! (Of course, I can just stop writing the said chapter or post it as a separate oneshot or NOT keep this chronological.)
> 
> I appreciate comments and kudos, please drop a note!


	5. Hat-trick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cristiano scores and Gareth likes it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was meant to be a short chapter that takes the plot forward and stretches over a couple of weeks in time but it's not. It's smut with some sweaty game jersey kink.

**Saturday, January 12 th 2008  
Manchester United – Newcastle**

**Old Trafford**

 

If the late London night has any effect on Cristiano’s performance on the pitch, it offers a positive boost. Gareth sits with his ankle brace on the stands of Old Trafford and witnesses a red hurricane storm over United’s poor Geordie visitors.

Seeing Cristiano play erases the guilt of not being there to watch his own club perform. It’s a match day for Spurs too, but they have an away game so he’s not obliged to go (well, it’s against Chelsea so he really _could_ be there if he was in London but he isn’t, so…).

He’s glad there’s so much happening on the pitch that the cameras don’t pan the audience very often. He tries to sit back and be unnoticed in case they do.

Yeah, maybe there’s a little bit of guilt after all. But he knows he’d hate to miss this.

It’s a beautiful ballet; Cristiano’s every touch on the ball is elegant, and at the same time he’s a full of fiery energy. The black-and-white striped shirts crowd around him but to no avail: he does his magical dance through their guards.

His boots are golden yellow, his feet are fast and his moves clever. He is electric and Gareth wants to eat him alive.

Cris is touched and fouled a lot, somersaulting on the wet winter grass, red shirt and white shorts soon stained with mud. A mixture of feelings tangle up in the pit of Gareth’s stomach: a flitch of worry and anger every time Cristiano is taken down, a wave of empathy when he throws his arms in the air dramatically calling for attention after the incidents, the sheer pure physical longing to touch him again, to feel those funny stubborn curls circling around his fingers, the ones Cristiano keeps long in the nape of his neck.

 

Cristiano’s first goal – the first of the game, in fact - is a free kick a few minutes into the second half. The Newcastle wall jumps up and Cristiano’s right foot sends the ball in confidently low, below the leaping feet. It’s a ridiculously bold coolheaded move and the game is 1-0.

The cheers all around Gareth fill his head and heart; for a moment he wavers between feelings of jealousy and pride but he can’t help the happiness and shared love that oozes from the fans catching on him.

Tevez makes it 2-0 in no time, and Cristiano’s second goal to 3-0 is an accurate shot from a beautiful string of passes. Rio Ferdinand solidifies the lead to 4-0 but the 5-0 goal is what sets the fireworks of noise out of the fans.

A hat-trick. Cristiano’s first ever in Manchester. A deserved one: he has worked his ass off in the game already. He accepts the cheers from the stands and the smothering hugs from the pile of his teammates with a thoroughly happy smile; the moment is all glistening teeth and sweaty laugh lines and love pouring over him.

Carlos Tevez’ game-ending 6-0 goal merely underlines the massacre the visitors have travelled across the country to suffer. Gareth might feel sorry for them if he wasn’t so thrilled for Cris. The hat trick is a big deal; Old Trafford has, after some bumps, fallen in love with their Ronaldo and performances like this only deepen the bond. He claps and waves his thanks to the fans, squeezing the last bits of physical energy he has left after the strenuous game to the effort of holding his hands up high.

They don’t only love him for the entertaining spectacle he is; they love him for giving his everything.

 

There’s a downside to a hat-trick, Gareth realizes. He doesn’t know how long it will take for Cristiano to get out of the stadium now. The big TV screens in a lobby bar are showing a post-match interview with Rio Ferdinand and Cristiano, and that’s only the first one. Cris is given his Man of the match champagne bottle, and the match ball is mentioned, the one that will be passed around everybody  – are they going to be partying late in the dressing room? Will Cris be going out with his teammates after that? Gareth can guess he would certainly want to.

Maybe he should just head home. Not that he’s really looking forward to the three-hour drive in the night.

A twenty-something couple, a boy and a girl, stop him. They’re excited to accidentally meet Gareth Bale here; they want him to sign something and pose for a selfie between them. They ask about his ankle, telling they were at the December game where he was injured, and hope he’ll be coming back soon. The boy tells he’s originally from Southampton, an old Saints fan, and followed Gareth’s moves ever since.

This year they’re going to travel around the country to watch one game on as many stadiums as possible, the girl says. Gareth tells that sounds like a nice plan and wishes them luck with the effort.

“You guys picked a great day to come here”, he says and they totally agree.

“Yeah, nice to see a piece of history being made”, the girl says.

Gareth shakes his head after they leave. It’s a funny feeling, meeting some fans of _his_ , are there those, really? And did he just turn the conversation to somebody else?

Well, it _is_ Cristiano’s day, isn’t it?

Which reminds Gareth that he hasn’t even congratulated Cris yet.

He grabs his phone to send quick message. He doesn’t want to call, it would feel like intruding; Cris will receive it when he does.

It’s not that quick, however. Gareth stares at the blank screen, typing and erasing words. He doesn’t want to be boring but does he really want to be bluntly forward?

What the hell. That’s what he came for, anyway.

_Smokin HOTTT you sexy beast!!! Wanna score some more?_

He erases the second sentence and sends the shorter message.

_Smokin HOTTT you sexy beast!!!_

Then he thinks again and types more.

_Wanna score some more? Call me so I know to stick around._

He sends that one and the act leaves the bottom of his stomach fluttering with butterflies. This has never been like him, he’s always been able to trust the things to progress naturally, and he hopes he’s not making an idiot out of himself.

 

Cristiano happens to be by his spot in the dressing room when his phone beeps. He grabs it, reads the two latest messages and heads out of the door. “I’ll be a minute”, he exclaims to the ones patting his shoulder or back when he’s passing them.

He’s happy Gareth answers almost immediately.

“You’re not leaving, are you stupid? Come on here, I’ll let you in.” Cristiano advises Gareth to a door to the stairs that lead to the dressing rooms and Gareth won’t argue.

He would if he thought any further. No, he’s not going to go in Manchester United’s dressing room when he’s out injured, Cris isn’t going to drag him there, is he?

He just wants to meet Cristiano and tell just how hot his game is to watch.

 

Gareth finds the right exit easily and Cris is already there, opens the steel-framed safety glass door, he’s still in his dirty long-sleeve game kit, perfect as ever.

As soon as Gareth enters and the door closes behind him, Cris grabs his arms gently and backs with him to a short dead-end corridor to the side from the top of the stairs, finds a niche between two supporting columns that make a little corner to hide behind.

Gareth leans his back to the wall, responds greedily to Cristiano’s kiss; Cris tilts his head just enough to avoid their noses bumping, presses his soft parted lips around Gareth’s, licks Gareth’s lips wet with his tongue, slides it further into his mouth; it has cool aftertastes of cold water and recovery gel.

Gareth digs his hands in Cristiano’s hair, the gelled spikes that curl stubbornly on the neck and on the crown cling to his fingers. He feels the moist sticky mixture of sweat and traces of hair products smearing his skin and the intimacy of touching Cristiano’s usually styled hair so slimy and unwashed makes Gareth tumble inside, and not in a bad way.

When Cris breaks the kiss for breath, Gareth moves his mouth to the side of his neck, kissing and tasting it all the way from the middle down to the red collar and back up behind the shell of his ear. The dried-up game sweat is a salty film on Cristiano’s skin; he stretches and arches his neck for Gareth’s kisses, eyes closed, lips parted for heavy breaths.

Cristiano’s fingers are on Gareth’s cheek and his waistline, they caress him gently, almost idly, but his body is firm and hot. Gareth responds to it pressing back at him and Cris realizes it is almost too much for a place like this but how could he stop now, his boy between him and the wall, hot and ready for him.

But he has to. Cristiano gently bends his head to the side to duck away from Gareth’s mouth on his neck, it detaches with a pop of a loosening suction cup and Cris is quite sure there’s a mark on his tanned skin.

He backs to an arm’s length, keeping a loose touch on Gareth’s hip and shoulder, looking into his eyes.

“Oh boy”, he says, smiling. “We can’t do this here.”

“R-right”, Gareth admits, trying to steady his breath. He straightens himself from the leaning position, steadies his weight on his good foot like testing if it still holds him. “So, what are you doing now? I mean, are you guys going to party or something?”

Cristiano blows air out of his mouth slowly, emptying bloated cheeks, sneers and shakes his head. “Don’t think so. We’re held in kind of a tight leash with partying right now.”

“You still have interviews? Team photos?”

“No, I’m ready. I’ll just shower and change”, Cristiano says.

“Don’t”, Gareth says. “Please don’t.”

Cristiano raises his eyebrows; Gareth’s pleading look, a gleam of hidden anticipation and barely withheld smile leave him baffled. “Don’t what?” he asks.

“Shower and change”, Gareth says, shrugging slightly like he’s just stating the obvious. “Please. Leave it for later.”

“But I’m a stinky mess.” Cristiano says.

“I want that stinky mess”, Gareth says, tugs the hem of Cristiano’s jersey and leans to kiss him below his ear before returning his glowing, pleading look back to Cristiano’s eyes.

Cristiano gets it. He laughs softly and musses Gareth’s hair. “You’re one kinky little fanboy, Gareth”, he says.

Gareth is not offended. He tilts his head from side to side, smiling smugly. “I can be if you want me to”, he replies, never taking his eyes off Cristiano’s face. Cris squeezes the nape of Gareth’s neck and makes him giggle.

“Do you want to come greet the guys when I grab my stuff?” Cristiano asks on the door of the dressing room. Gareth hesitates. “It’s ok, you can come with me. Everybody will be cool with it”, Cris reassures.

Gareth is not sure if he’s cool with it himself. He’s only just recovering from the shock of his national team teammate, boyhood hero and Welsh football icon Ryan Giggs quite blatantly sending him off to have sex with Cristiano the last time they met. Gareth is not sure if he’s cool with _him_ being so cool with it and isn’t very eager to face him or anybody else from Cristiano’s team right now.

But that’s not a reason he wants to give Cristiano. He just shakes his head.

“No thanks, Cris. I’d like to but… I’m in a shaky place with my injury, you know, I wouldn’t want the rumours spread to Spurs and anybody questioning my commitment”, he says.

Cristiano can appreciate that, he nods. “OK, that’s cool. I’ll be out soon.”

 

Cristiano can’t wait to get out of the car because he’s afraid his post-game stench will stick to the seats and Gareth can’t wait to get out of the car because he wants to get his hands back on Cristiano.

Gareth unzips Cristiano’s warm-up jacket as soon as they get to the loft. Cristiano toes off his trainers, peels down his sweatpants and steps out of them piled around his ankles.

He has chuckled at Gareth’s enthusiasm that just gleamed out of his whole presence on the passenger’s seat through the ride home. Sometimes it’s so ridiculously easy to plaster a smile on his freckled teenager’s face – oh no, not plaster, it’s more like switching on a light that shines from within: Gareth’s face is so open and expressive, all his emotions washing through it like breezes over water.

So raw and tender, eager and fragile and fun. Sometimes, when Gareth is a confused bundle of mixed emotions and raging hormones, Cristiano gets worried he might break the boy. Other times he wonders how he can ever fear for that; it’s the times Gareth seems to walk through life with determined simplicity, shrugging off things he can’t change or chooses not worth bothering to deal with.

Gareth gets rid of his jacket. Cristiano got a glimpse of red when he opened the zipper halfway in the car but now he grins widely at the sight: Gareth has the short sleeved version of his own shirt, the one from the august game.

“I wanted to show my support”, Gareth says with a demure smile from under his brows. Cris needs to pull him in a hug. And a tighter hug.

Gareth, in return, inches a knee between his thighs and grinds his hips from side to side to find a slot where their dicks are touching through the layers of fabric. His body is so determined and focused, of course he finds it, just like he finds Cristiano’s mouth for a sloppy wet kiss, accompanied by muffled grunts on and around Cristiano’s lips and tongue.

Gareth twitches when he accidentally lands his weight on the injured foot. Cristiano balances him with his hands on his waistline, supporting as much of Gareth’s weight as possible. “Careful, baby. You need to recover”, he says.

The care in Cristiano’s voice, words and touch slay Gareth deep in his gut, a flood of emotion washes over him and he knows this is hitting him hard and bad. What has he ever done to deserve even a moment so close to the perfection that Cristiano is? And what is he ever going to do with the rest of his life if the moment, because the moment, doesn’t last forever?

All he can do is postpone the inevitable heartbreak by savouring what he has now. He looks Cristiano deep in his brown eyes before he finds his mouth again for a deep kiss and cups his hand firmly but tenderly over the hardening bulge on his match shorts. He rubs it to feel it growing to his hand, loving the erection that responds to his touch. When Cristiano’s pleased moan vibrates in his mouth, he smiles inside.

He just wants to make Cris feel good.

They walk-limp-slow dance their way to the bed. Cristiano lays down, Gareth squirms out of his jeans, briefs and socks and gets on his knees on the bed, straddled over Cristiano’s waist, and bows his head down to kiss him. His hard cock peeks under the hem of the red jersey and butts shamelessly to Cristiano’s stomach when he leans down over him. Cristiano gasps from the touch and grabs Gareth’s buttocks to pull him closer, but Gareth takes his hands gently by the wrists and lifts them to the pillows over his head. “Like that”, he hisses softly, “Let me touch you first.”

He kisses Cristiano’s cheeks, moves down his neck; he traces the edges of his pecs with an open mouth, his lips and teeth gently grazing through the material of his shirt and moves on his knees slowly down on the bed, hands on Cristiano’s ribs, on his sides; they glide down to the hem of his jersey, slide under it, roam on the toned abs, feeling the sticky dried sweat on the skin. He pushes the shirt up just enough to kiss and lick the trail of his hands because he wants to taste it, goes as far up as to softly suck each nipple before moving back down.

Cris lets himself just lie there and feel. Gareth’s moves are all but graceful, he is edgy and hard and angular like his body, but his mouth is languid and luscious, pure slow luxury.

Gareth’s narrow fingers reach the waistline of his white shorts (he has to have the duvet sent to laundry tomorrow because the boy insisted on him keeping on his muddy gear, flashes through his mind but he ignores the thought the next second) and gently pull them down along with his underpants until his hard dick pops out. Gareth immediately sinks it in his mouth, blanketing it with his long and wide tongue.

“OHH _yess”,_ Cristiano moans. Gareth takes to blow jobs like any other physical activity he has tried throughout his life, starting out with natural talent and perfecting his performance every chance he gets, like a long throw or golf swing. Cristiano has to give the boy credit: Cris loves his body well enough, but even he wouldn’t lick his balls after today’s game. But Gareth does, lovingly, like it’s something he really likes and something he wants to be really good at… and O-oh, _is…_ really _really GOOD_ at.

Gareth opens his eyes, lifts his head and looks at him, smiling with his wet lips, and Cristiano realizes he has shouted something out loud.

Gareth coaxes Cristiano’s shorts off completely and shifts just enough to take his cock back in his mouth, gradually deeper and deeper. Cristiano feels it hit the back of the mouth, the curve to the throat, sees tears forming in the corners of Gareth’s closed eyes, hears him bravely swallow back a gagging sound and almost says _hey, you don’t have to_ but doesn’t, because Gareth smiles around his cock, finds a more comfortable position, the right rhythm and Cristiano loses all track of rational coherent thought, because the ways that tongue wraps and licks and curves are just… right. The lips slide up and down, slick and wet, the squeeze and suction pulsate and… he’s in deeper. And it’s phenomenal. And it’s hisworldconcentrated… in this one spot… NOW.

Shit. He shouldn’t have come so fast.

Gareth doesn’t mind. He feels actually just proud and self-satisfied  but isn’t yet used to taking the full load in his mouth. He lets Cristiano’s cock nestle in his hand, its tip resting gently against his lower lip, through the orgasm, slimy cum smearing them both just as much.

“Fuck”, Cristiano sighs when Gareth climbs up to his arms for a cuddle.

“Yes please”, Gareth replies, his eyes twinkling, matching his adoring smile.

Cristiano kisses his temple, ruffles his hair and wraps his large hand around Gareth’s hard cock. Gareth growls pleased and rubs his neck to Cristiano’s sleeve.

Cristiano finds lube and opens Gareth with his fingers like that, snuggled to his shoulder, his arm wrapped around him.

“I want to be on my hands and knees”, Gareth says, voice thick and breathless from the feeling of Cristiano’s thick fingers gently scissoring inside him.

“So I have to stare at my name on your back?”

Gareth looks back at him eyes wide, like he hadn’t even thought about it that way. “If you don’t mind?” he suggests tentatively.

“Why would I?” Cristiano murmurs in response and lifts himself more upright as Gareth turns to his stomach. It’s not like this is the first time he’s in bed with somebody wearing his team jersey; it’s just the first time it’s someone from a rival club. And a guy, in general.

What Gareth wants Gareth gets, and he shows he likes it, getting nice and loud when Cristiano thrusts into him.

Cristiano can’t resist the temptation. “Ronaldo fucking you good, Spurs boy?” he asks and right, it sets his boy on fire. “Yes, fuck, yes”, he pants and Cris just has to lean down to kiss and bite the sweet boy' s neck and grab his cock to a hold that will get him off good and hot, repeating his name when he comes. That feels like the best “Cris” he’s ever heard.

Cris lets Gareth sink his shoulders to the mattress and keeps firm grab of his buttocks, keeping them lifted and spreading them for his final thrusts before he stiffens, then relaxes and lowers himself down to the bed.

“Can I now please go to shower?” he asks when his breath has steadied.

Gareth’s answer is a happy giggle. “If you take me with you.”

Before the night is through, he makes Cristiano come the third time.

Cristiano is happy to be finally naked for that one.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos motivate me! Sorry if this was disrespectful & thank you for reading!


	6. Of handcuffs and hangover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gareth tracks down the ups and downs of his recent life that have led him to his current state.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. The previous chapter was surprise smut for smut’s sake from my deep subconscious, but this one is actually a pre-planned piece of plotline development, believe it or not.  
> 2\. Chapter title is inspired by the fabulous football blog Of Headbands and Heartbreak. I was also a bit inspired by the “Hangover” movies.  
> 3\. I’ve used a ridiculous amount of time writing this chapter due to the two timelines structure I haven’t tried quite this way before. I hope it’s easy enough to follow as it is now; I tried past tense on part of the passages, italics, but stuck to this. I’m really curious to know how this chapter is received because of the content, too, so please, be kind and leave a comment after reading!

 

Gareth’s mouth tastes like the smell of a cat litter box, his armpits feel overstretched and his wrists hurt.

As long as he keeps his eyes shut, the world is mildly and pleasantly dull grey, but as he lets his eyelids slowly ease open, coloured circles and dots of light invade the darkness and it is a nasty sting, a thin needle sinking into the eyeball.

He rises slowly from sleep to reality like surfacing from a dive in deep water, naturally lifted by the air in his lungs. And just like after rising from water, the air on his skin feels cold.

He lifts his head to look around and sinks back to the pillows. His head feels poisonously heavy but it’s not the only reason he’s not sitting up. Lying himself back down is pretty much the only option because he can’t get up any further.

What a way to wake up. He lies in Cristiano’s modern big ass canopy bed, arms stretched to both sides, handcuffed to its head corner posts. The worst thing is not that he is naked; the worst is that he is alone.

 

This may be the rock bottom, but it isn’t exactly the first time he’s felt pathetically sorry for himself during the past few weeks.

The turn from January to February has been the darkest time of his life, for about as long as he can remember. He has been looking forward to these days eagerly: the first time Tottenham plays against Manchester United since his debut game, and another match just a few days later. It’s a challenge he’s just dying to take.

And then, suddenly, he’s just dying. Only a few days before the first of those games a trainer checks his foot, and calls for another trainer to feel it. They send him to a doctor, and he sends him to a magnetic scan and an ultrasound. Then there’s a series of serious talks that cancel _everything_.

No, he’s not getting to try if he can outrun Cristiano.

He’s not getting to do anything for a long long time. Longer than he cares to think of.

He’s not exaggerating with _“anything”_. Football is everything. Rehab is… something boring that just sucks.

He’s told to think about his future, he realizes and accepts it on a rational level but his heart wants to live _now_ , doing what he loves to do, what he’s paid to do, what he is _meant_ to do.

“You don’t want to break yourself at this age. You have years, decades, ahead of you if you take it easy now. Take the necessary steps, even if it’s a few back”, they say.

The only necessary steps back Gareth wants to know about are taken before a free kick. His ace free kicks, that once made Cristiano kiss his left foot after watching a video on YouTube after his injury. (Yeah, someone had actually edited a video of _him_ , compiled clips over background music, who would’ve thought? And Cris had searched it and made Gareth watch it with him to cheer him up, how sweet is that?)

 

Helpless and handcuffed, Gareth can’t but listen closely to the silence of the vast loft apartment.

It’s not completely silent. There’s a snort from a sectional facing the kitchen end of the room, followed by low mumbling and a deep sigh. A steady sound of snoring fills the air after that.

Has the Portuguese asshole left him like this on his bed and gone to sleep on a sofa? Gareth has the worst boyfriend in the world.

No, that’s not fair. In fact, until this morning Cristiano has been nothing but sweet and supportive.

 

Gareth has hard time getting words out of his mouth when he calls Cris after the doctor’s appointment. The fact that he’s not playing cancels out not only the game, but the “winner takes all” -sex bet they have made looking at the upcoming fixtures in the beginning of the year. Odds were badly against Gareth since Tottenham Hotspur hadn’t won Manchester United once in his lifetime but he didn’t really mind, since the thought of Cristiano tying him up and doing what he pleases with him was not actually worse than the other way round.

He really would have done his all for a victory, though; he hasn’t been in a winning game even once on his first season and now he doesn’t even have a chance to change that.

Everything sucks.

Except Cristiano, who does his best to cheer Gareth up. In an instant he decides to arrange an impromptu birthday party, he’s gonna be 23 only three days after the away Spurs game. Soon he has a club booked for a private party and a clear plan of how the night will go.

“You’re the guest of honour and my best birthday gift”, he murmurs so softly it’s almost hard to hear over the phone but it still sends chills to Gareth’s spine.

 

If only he would have known that being a birthday gift means this.

He should have seen it coming, though, the way he wanted to please Cristiano and the way Cristiano dictated the details from the beginning.

 

“What I’m I gonna wear?” Gareth asks.

“Mmm”, Cristiano hums on the other end and Garth can see him squinting, really thinking with the fashionista part of his brain, the one Cristiano has for the both of them. “Skinny black jeans. Pitch black, not faded. Slim white shirt and a tie. Black and white stripes if you have, or solid black. Spurs blue is ok if it’s solid colour, no pattern. Black jacket if you want.”

“Okay”, Gareth says, smiling amused and going through his closet in his mind. He may have to go shopping.

“Do you have black converse shoes or checkered Vans slip-ons?”

“Checkered Vans? Isn’t that a bit 90’s?”

“They’re classic. And they’re coming back”, Cristiano assures.

Whatever, Gareth knows he’s not going to wear them. He would look like a clown.

“And do your eyes. I want to see you in that black makeup again. It was hot.”

Gareth doesn’t have that either. But he’ll figure out something.

He does. Theo Walcott suggests a personal shopper and Gareth finds a great lady who not only gets him everything he (or Cris) wants but also books him to a makeup artist who works in the cosmetics department of the store and does, frankly and unsurprisingly, a better job with his eyes than Cristiano did.

“Nice, right?” the makeup artist says to his mirror image when they both turn to look at it once she’s finished. “You look really cute. Was this your own idea?”

“No, it was… a request, for a party”, Gareth says. He can’t say _my boyfriend asked me to do it_ , can he? They’re not there yet… or are they?

 

At the club Cris acts almost like they are, or then he acts like they’re good buddies joking on the possibility of being something more. Gareth tries to detach himself from the situation, observe them from the outside, and he still can’t say what he would think of them if he didn’t know.

When Gareth arrives the party is already going on. Cristiano takes his hands and kisses his cheeks as a greeting, but he does treat some other guests affectionately too, hugs, kisses cheeks.

Gareth doesn’t know most people in the room. Some are Cristiano’s relatives and friends from Portugal; there are a few footballers and then some Manchester-based soap stars, models, clothing industry people. Gareth forgets the names as soon as he hears them.

As the night progresses, Cris hauls him around the room, sometimes taking his arm, sometimes putting his own arm across his shoulders. Some Jell-O shots later Cris thinks it’s a great idea to walk Gareth around by his tie like it was a leash and Gareth just accepts it, like it’s a friendly joke to humour the birthday boy.

 

Shots. Christ, Gareth thinks, mouth dry and covered in cold sweat. Never again.

 

Cristiano knows Gareth doesn’t like to drink, they’ve talked about it because it’s something they have in common. Gareth has told him how he hates just about everything that goes with any kind of alcohol. The acrid taste stings through all drinks, even beer (actually, beer is one of the worst, the malty taste makes him kind of sick) and he is extremely uncomfortable with anything that distorts his senses or self-control. Plus, why would he want to put anything harmful in his body when it is totally unnecessary.

“I’m fine, thanks”, he says holding on to his glass of mineral water but at some point Cristiano stops listening. The party has put Cris on a reckless mood and he is convinced that Gareth needs to loosen up.

“It’s my birthday. Please”, he says, face so dangerously close to Gareth, eyes gleaming dark, almost black in the club lighting. He has a bright orange Jell-O cup in one hand and he rubs the nape of Gareth’s neck with another. “Just open your mouth and stick your tongue out for me, Gareth”, and his voice is as velvety as his eyes mischievous and Gareth loses the word _no_ from his vocabulary.

Cris pops the shot out of the cup on his tongue, presses his jaw closed with his hand. “Just let it slide down your throat, baby”, he says softly, tracing down Gareth’s neck with his fingers and Gareth blushes bright red as he swallows, the alcoholic aftertaste burns inside his head but the way Cristiano looks him in the eye makes him smile.

“Do another”, Cristiano whispers after a while, the tip of his tongue peeks out to lick his full pink lips and his eyes are so dark, almost black. At that moment Gareth would follow him to the ends of the earth so why not, it wasn’t that bad.

Cristiano guides him to open his mouth again, with a feather light fingertip that brushes down on his chin, and the next shot is deep red and the third one green. Cristiano’s fingers follow the track of the shots outside on the skin of his throat and he has the dirtiest look in his brown eyes when he touches him like that. Gareth answers him with his eyes, _I know what you’re thinking of, Cris, you horny fucker, just tell me when we’re leaving because I want you too_.

But no, Cris is not in a hurry anywhere, he tugs Gareth’s tie again and leads them to the dance floor and Gareth is lucky, it’s some idiotic party song that people just jump up and down to; if Cris pulled him close to rock to some sexy slow beats he wouldn’t be able to keep himself together.

He washes the next shot down with champagne and Cristiano pats his cheek. Then they’re on a taxi to somewhere, just the two of them, sitting far apart, looking out of their respective side windows, glancing quickly at each other, hiding their smiles, looking out again.

Cris pays for the ride and wraps his arm around Gareth’s pea coat when he guides him down the street. Gareth stumbles a bit in his slippery All Stars, it’s February in Manchester anyway; Cris tells him to stand up and keep a straight face because they’re going in.

Cris takes his coat and hands it over to the cloakroom, Gareth recognizes the club now and hugs Cris tight.

It’s _the_ place. The place where everything started, the place of their first kiss. And this is Cristiano’s own birthday and he’s wanted to take Gareth there and… Gareth is overwhelmingly emotional, he can’t wait to push Cristiano to the wall in the darkness behind the dance floor and show how overwhelmingly emotional he is.

Cristiano lets him do that. They dance grinding close and slow, Gareth leads them gradually between the other dancers towards the wall. It’s dark there but Cristiano’s brown eyes gleam when he leans his back to the wall, slides his fingers in Gareth’s back pockets and tugs him close, pressing their crotches together and Gareth’s jeans start to feel very, very tight. He is so drunk he has to lean his hands on the wall both sides of Cristiano’s head when he kisses him, tongue circling inside his mouth, salivating excessively but Cristiano doesn’t mind.

Gareth feels Cristiano’s fingers letting their grip of his ass inside his pockets but soon it’s better. They dig into his hair, roaming in his scalp, clenching some locks in an iron fist and it’s hot but the other hand is even hotter, he feels the fingers through the denim fabric between the back pockets and the backseam of his jeans, dangerously, obscenely close to his buttcrack. Fuck it’s killing him.

This is undoubtedly closest to fucking he has ever been fully clothed in a public place.

And it feels great.

He has the best boyfriend in the world.

 

No. Gareth has the worst boyfriend in the world.

“Cris!” he shouts. “Wake the hell up! CRIS!”

He hears a light rustling of the sofa cushions, thank god, Cris is waking up.

A head pops up above the back of the sofa.

Gareth was wrong. It wasn’t worst to be hungover, handcuffed, naked and alone. This is worse: the head doesn’t belong to Cristiano.

It’s Wayne Rooney.

“Morning”, he says, scratching his head and squinting his eyes, “Gaz.”

“Morning”, Gareth says in a hoarse voice because he doesn’t know what else to say. “Do you know where Cris is?”

 

Gareth’s memories from the night don’t include Wayne Rooney. They include floundering out of the club Cristiano’s arm around him after dry humping against the wall is too much considering the surroundings and not enough to satisfy. They include heated undressing that starts in Cristiano’s private lift.

They include Cristiano sitting up on the bed, lifting two pairs of padded handcuffs (one is fuzzy pink, the other leopard pattern, he gets them from girl fans every now and then and his PR team sends them further to him once the packages have been opened to make sure there’s nothing dangerous or disgusting inside) and an eyebrow. The eyebrow wiggle is the most _Cristiano_ expression and it melts Gareth inside. The memories include Gareth nodding in agreement, eyes full of excitement and trust, willing to give himself fully.

Cristiano locks him up tenderly, straddled over his chest, the hard head of his thick cock butting to Gareth’s collarbone on each side as he reaches for the bedposts.

Cristiano supports part of his weight on his knees but there’s some on Gareth’s chest where he sits. He smells musky and spicy and _Cristiano_ up close, there’s a light sheen of sweat on his perfect toned brown abs and strong, straddling thighs. Gareth looks up to him and his face wavers between expressions or lust and awe and an openly happy, relaxed, drunken smile, the crooked one that stretches tighter over one side of his lower teeth than another, like his lips were put on his face on a slightly different angle than his jaw.

“Do you like me putting things in your mouth, little boy?” Cristiano asks, tracing the edge of Gareth’s lips with his index finger.

“Yes”, Gareth says, breath slow and heavy.

“You were so good swallowing those jelly shots just because I told you to. I bet you were thinking about my cock in your mouth, huh?” as Cris speaks, he pushes his fingers in Gareth’s mouth, two, three. Gareth knows what the correct answers is, no words are necessary because Cris already knows he is right; Gareth hums yieldingly around his fingers, locks his adoring, compliant light blue gaze on Cristiano’s eyes and sucks his fingers like an obedient baby.

Cris uses his other hand to stroke his impressive cock right there, close to Gareth’s chin. He pulls his fingers out of the mouth and tucks pillows behind Gareth’s head, supporting it to a more upright position.

“So pretty big mouth, baby. Waiting for me all night.” Cristiano steers his cock on Gareth’s lips, watches him play with it. The nibbling touches are feather light on the sensitive surface, he’s so sweet and appreciative at this, shining his baby blues, still circled in black after hours of partying, like spotlights towards Cristiano’s face, sticking his tongue out to lick the cock Cristiano is holding on the pouty entrance to his wet luscious mouth.

Cris adjusts his position, digs his knees firmly on the mattress under Gareth’s armpits, stretches his back and leans to the wall over the headboard on one hand. “Open up for me, baby”, he says, pressing Gareth’s lower lip down, caressing his chin with the tip of his little finger, “I want to fuck your mouth. Take it in good.”

He glides in slowly, loving every inch of the soft tongue tunneling for him, the wet suction Gareth creates hollowing his cheeks. He digs his free hand in Gareth’s long messy hair, grabbing a fistful; the gesture makes him feel bestial, dominant.

He lets his cock glide further in, keeping it nice and easy; having Gareth restrained helpless is power trip enough, he’s not rushing to push deeper than is comfortable.

It’s so good. He feels more blood rushing to his already hard cock, Gareth welcomes it tracing the throbbing veins with the tip of his tongue. Cristiano moans, his pelvis doing its cautious small movement like it had its own will. Gareth takes it hungrily, adapts to the rhythm, copies it to his lovely sucking mouth. His eyes are hooded under the blackened lids; Cristiano tugs his hair a bit upwards and tells him to look at him and they blink open, so quickly and so straight into his.

It turns Cris on, he deepens his thrusts, not too roughly, he just loves to feel his cock hit the back wall and he keeps his grip on the boy’s head to keep it in its place. Gareth’s blushing nostrils flutter when he struggles to keep breathing through his nose and stay in the rhythm, water pools in the corners of his eyes and runs black streaks down towards his freckled cheekbones. He’s so fragile and devoted that it’s hotter than hell but Cristiano doesn’t want to come like this.

He eases his grip from Gareth’s hair and runs the hand down his cheek, pulls back leaving the glorious wet mouth and shuffles down on the bed, settling between Gareth’s legs, spreading them. Cristiano sits on the mattress on folded knees, inches his thighs under Gareth’s. He strokes his ass, looking for the hole, testing it, pleased when it flutters to his fingertip like it was breathing.

“Good boy”, he praises, “you’re already waiting for me here.”

“Yes… yes, Cris”, Gareth pants, arching his back on the bed, cock thick and red and hard against his white flat stomach, nipples pebbled small and perky in the middle of their dark flat circles, dark hair under his stretched arms. He squirms to meet Cristiano’s hand and Cris locks him to his place by pressing his narrow hips down with his large hands.

“Yes what, Gareth?”

“Yes, I’m waiting… fuck me, Cris, fuck… I  want it.”

Cristiano reaches for lube, gets it in his hands and on Gareth, deliberately not warming it up for him, smirking mischievously when Gareth twitches from the touch of the cold gel. That doesn’t keep him from relaxing to the touch and making small impatient whimpering noises when Cristiano teases him being extra slow with his fingers. He just lingers there, by his ass, giving him a fingertip, not more, and it’s irritating as hell, he tries to wiggle his ass from side to side to have some actual contact but Cris physically stops him from doing that, and his muscles don’t know if they should be opening for more or not.

Gareth grunts and growls and swears until Cristiano gives it to him, fucking FINALLY, there’s the whole finger to the knuckle inside him, then a bit out to make it easier to bring a second one. Cris fucks and stretches Gareth with them, making room for a third, and it’s close to discomfort because Cristiano’s fingers are large but fuck no, it’s good.

And it’s just preparing for the better. Not that it doesn’t take time, too, Cris utilizes Gareth’s restrained position and repeats the teasing act with his cock, just touching the stretched hole with its lubed tip until Gareth begs him almost crying to push it in, please.

Cristiano lifts Gareth’s long, dexterous legs on his waist and thrusts IN all the way. Gareth’s whole body jolts from the force and he moans from the mixture of shock and pleasure. By the next long thrust he shouts out loud.

“Look at me, here”, Cristiano says, pleased when Gareth does, he loves his lustfully darkened eyes. Cristiano lowers his torso on top of Gareth, lifting his legs higher, feeling their long, hard muscles and folding them back for access. Gareth’s erect cock is trapped between their bodies and Cristiano can see the pleasure in Gareth’s eyes when it rubs to his skin for much longed friction. Cristiano makes sweet scooping rolls with his hips, moving inside Gareth, slamming against his flesh.

He reaches down with his hand and all it takes is the extra touch, a few twisting jerks with the lube-covered hand to feel him coming. Cristiano stays deep inside him through it, feeling the pulse, the little muscles inside contracting and softening and soon he’s just as ready himself.

“My lovely boy”, he says, melting limp on top of his shackled lover, covering his cheek with lazy kisses.

“Are you letting me out now?” Gareth asks.

“Not a chance, baby. No way. I want to keep you just like that. I want to wake up and just go on”, Cristiano says and kisses his wrist next to the handcuff.

Gareth fists and opens his hands, at least his fingers are working. It’s not dangerous to stay like this, right?

Cristiano moves on to kiss his lips and it feels good. Gareth is drowsy after his orgasm, his eyelids are feeling heavy, he lets them droop, concentrates on feeling Cristiano’s soft mouth on his.

 “Don’t fall asleep, baby. I have some extra fun. Stay here”, Cristiano whispers barely detaching his lips.

Gareth giggles sleepily. Like he would go anywhere.

 

Wayne Rooney is disoriented and for a moment he thinks he is dreaming. It takes a moment to recognize where he is.

Oh yeah, he left Cristiano’s party very late with some girl, long after the birthday boy had already gone. The girl eventually kicked him out and it was almost morning. He noticed he had the key to Ronnie’s hilarious gay village loft in his pocket from the Christmas leave when Ronnie had lent it to him in case he wanted to party in town. He hadn’t used it then but now it’s the closest place to crash and sleep a couple of hours. So he’s used the key and passed out on the nearest sofa.

How he hasn’t paid attention to anybody else being in the room is beyond him. Must’ve been that they have already been sleeping.

Because whatever Ronnie has been doing with Gareth Bale and two pairs of handcuffs is hardly something to go unnoticed.

“Man, can you help me out here?” Gareth whimpers hoarsely, waking Wayne from his musings. Of course he has to help the poor lad.

Wayne rises from the sofa, fully dressed (he has to check himself because Cristiano’s place seems to be an universe where you can never be sure but yes, he’s passed out in his party clothes) and gets to the bed in a few fast steps.

“Do you want something over your… self?” he asks, quickly turning his eyes away from the naked 18-year-old’s close-to-full morning glory, glancing over for a blanket or sheet.

“Yeah, thanks”, Gareth mumbles and Wayne throws a duvet over him and leans down to pull it up better.

“You have something on - yuck, sorry”, Wayne starts pointing at Gareth’s chest but stops soon, realizing he should’ve ignored it. Gareth glances down and freaks out when he sees the white stain.

“Get it off me! Get it out, now! Tissue, something!” he shouts, bloodshot pale blue eyes wide and burning with fury.

“I-I’m not touching that, man”, Wayne backs off and shakes his head.

“It’s not what you think, Wayne. Please. I want it away.” Gareth’s voice is trembling, not just from the aftermath of the booze, it’s full of anxiety. Wayne tilts his head and lifts his eyebrows questioningly. He notices that there’s not only the white stain that gets the boy freaked out, it looks like there are drops of blood on the sheets too.

“What sick fuck have you guys been doing?”

Gareth is tired of holding his head up and lets it sink back to the pillows. He looks back at Wayne, frowning.

“It’s coke, all right? Cocaine”, Gareth says, his expression between sad, angry and defiant.

“You?” Wayne looks utterly surprised. “I never would have thought.”

 

Gareth has an uncomplicated, direct approach to any kind of drug use. It’s simply zero tolerance and his old friends are used to it. If he’s offered, he says no, if others are using he removes himself from the situation. It’s easier that way: he doesn’t like to drink, either, but he has no problem with anybody else getting drunk. It’s just that if the substance goes to the illegal side, he doesn’t want to deal with it.

Illegal, harmful, gets you in trouble. Nobody has been able to convince him that there could be a grey zone, occasional harmless fun that destroys less brain cells than a pint of cider. He prefers the simple approach: it’s easier when you don’t have to assess every situation individually. If it’s never ok, you don’t have to wonder every time if it’s ok this time.

Cristiano catches him completely off guard. He’s gone to get a towel to clean Gareth up a bit; taking it back to hamper, he stops by his jeans piled on the floor and comes back with his finding.

It’s a very small sachet of folded paper and Cris holds it between his fingers.

The Cristiano eyebrow wiggle.

“You want a line?”

Gareth doesn’t believe what he’s hearing. Or seeing. Cris rubs the sachet between his fingertips, folds it open and places it on the nightstand, it’s a small pile of white powder and Gareth starts shaking his head, face aghast, drowsy drunken eyes widened.

“No, shit, no, is this a sick joke?”

Cristiano isn’t listening, he goes to the kitchen island and the toilet, comes back with a small round pocket mirror and a short drinking straw he’s taken from a protein drink shaker.

“I never do this, not for… years”, Cristiano talks, rambling like he’s a bit nervous. “But somebody gave it to me at the party” – he looks quickly at Gareth, flashing a small smile, “won’t tell you who, said ‘happy birthday’, and this is a special night, right? Nothing we normally do, I hate this stuff, I’d never… you know”, he shrugs his shoulders. All the while he is preparing the lines on the small flat mirror, using the edge of the paper to smooth any clots. “And it’s not really much there, which is good, that’s like half a gram, just a taste, right?”

No. Not right. Gareth goes pale, he feels stone cold anger inside. “No. Leave me out. You’re not doing it in my presence. Get me out of these cuffs. I want to leave.”

Cristiano doesn’t seem to listen, he places the mirror on Gareth’s chest, tilts his head and looks at Gareth as sweetly as ever, brushing his cheek with his fingers. “Baby”, he says. “You don’t have to. But you don’t know unless you try.” He takes the straw and bows down over Gareth.

He manages to get half of a line up his nose before Gareth’s knee hits his face. “Fucking idiot, Cris, I said no!” Gareth shouts.

The mirror has landed somewhere on the carpet, blood is dripping from Cristiano’s nose. He presses it shut with his fingers and runs for the bathroom.

 

“No!” Gareth retorts at Wayne Rooney and sinks back to pouting. “It’s not mine. Cristiano is an asshole. I told him no. Stupid fuck.” He’s kept his red eyes open for too long now, the light is starting to hurt them again and he starts to notice his bladder is killing him. “And where the hell is he, anyway? Do you see keys to these anywhere?” Gareth rattles the cuffs and it sounds like the boy would be getting all riled up if he had the energy.

Now he’s just suffering and Wayne feels sorry for him. He lifts the pillows, peeks under the bed and the bedside tables but doesn’t find keys there: just a sheet of paper with some white stuff still on it, a small flat mirror and a half-used tube of unscented lube.

“RONNIE!” he shouts on the top of his lungs to the empty air and the red brick walls of the loft. He looks down at Gareth, shaking his head. “Why do you let him treat you like this?” he asks quietly, not really expecting an answer.

He doesn’t get one. Gareth looks at him with a melancholy smile that seems to say _“How could I not?”_ and draws his lungs full of air to shout for his idiot boyfriend.

“Cris, ASSHOLE!” he screams.

“…let”, they hear, sound comes from the direction of the door. Toilet, of course.

Wayne strolls over to the locked door.

“Did you know you have a naked kid handcuffed to your bed? You should let him out”, he says through the door. “Where have you put the keys?”

“They’re in the other bathroom”, he hears from inside. “They were in my hand when Gareth kicked my nose bleeding.”

Life as usual, Wayne thinks and goes to fetch the keys.

Gareth rubs his freed wrists, happy to sit up again. Then he spurts out of the bed to the toilet door and bangs it.

“Get the fuck out of there, soon! It’s my turn!”

Life as usual, Wayne thinks.

 

Gareth’s phone is dead. He hasn’t looked at it once since he left for Manchester yesterday. He remembers to plug it in the charger in his London home when he empties his pockets before going to bed and doesn’t look at it once before the next morning.

There are some messages, both emails and texts. Several people on his short contacts list and a few he knows vaguely or not at all have sent him the same link, some accompanying it either with a joke or a word of condolence.

_Have you seen this?_

_Sorry, but thought you might want to see this:_

_What a load of crap! News of the World all over again… sorry if you’re already seen this!_

Gareth clicks the link and freezes.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you sweet people for reading! If the fighting and booze and drugs made you sad, go back to the happy parts.


	7. Runaway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _And the message coming from my eyes_  
>  _Says leave it alone_  
>  *  
>  _Don’t want to hear about it_  
>  _Every single one’s got a story to tell_  
>  _Everyone knows about it_  
>  _From the Queen of England to the hounds of hell_  
>   
>  Gareth has trouble facing… anybody.  
>   
>   
>  _A seven nation army couldn’t hold me back_  
>   
>  But Cristiano is determined to find him - and he’s not the only one.
> 
> (Quotes from “Seven Nation Army” by The White Stripes, Jack White 2003)

It could be worse. It could be a lot worse. It could be worse in a lot of ways.

Gareth is no expert on journalism, but he knows that an interview of one sacked taxi driver is a shaky source, especially when there are no photos to back up the story. The only picture that depicts the two of them together in the same frame is from a football pitch, a lousy archive snap from his Prem debut match last august, left unpublished back then for a reason because the picture quality is just rubbish.

They have Cristiano entering his own party on the street outside the club, they have Gareth arriving at the same party on the street, but they’re separate pictures from separate angles and the paper is not even trying to lie that they had been coming in together.

It’s no cover story, which is little relief; although the flimsy compilation of interview quotes, speculation, innuendo and sidebars for some shady background information is buried near the sports section (the editors don’t seem to know whether it’s sports news or plain celebrity gossip), it fills a whole tabloid page. And its internet version is, of course, only the same one click away from the reader’s point of view as any other article.

Still, it’s a relief that they don’t have _the_ story they could have. Nobody from the birthday party has given the reporters anything special. They haven’t been photographed leaving the party together, or walking on Canal Street Cristiano's arm around him, and thank goodness there’s no indication of anyone having seen their steamy make-out session inside the gay club.

It would probably kill him if they had, because even the non-story they have is enough to make his blood freeze in his veins, his heart pound rock heavy inside his throat, his hands go numb and his head spin. The headlines and subheads are sickening enough even as it is.

 

**_FOOTIE STARS’ BIG GAY NIGHT OUT_ **

**WINKING WINGER Ronaldo & WELSH WONDERBOY Bale headed for Canal Street clubs**

**Teenager Bale ‘absolutely HAMMERED’**

 

The story itself offers much less. It's spun around basically the only fact that the paper has, the taxi drive from the birthday party venue (confirmed as such by an anonymous source) to the beginning of the pedestrian section of Canal Street (confirmed by the driver's copy of the receipt, paid on Cristiano's card and confirmed with his signature). The driver has lost sight of them pretty much as soon as they have exited the taxi so he can't say if they have really gone inside of any nearby bars or clubs (and, he points out in the interview, he couldn't be sure if the younger player would even be let in anywhere in his wasted state).

 

Good grief. This is the kind of publicity he's been determined to steer clear of all his life.

 

The background facts given in separate sidebars hurt Gareth more than he'd like to. They make a point of the apparent differences between the two of them, making them look like the most odd and unexpected persons to ever hang out together.

Well, it's of little surprise that they haven't, apart from the birthday party photo, found a picture of Gareth sporting anything else than a tracksuit over his skinny young figure, holding a football with his skinny long fingers, and it's even less surprising that Cristiano stares at the camera seductively in some of his gorgeous modelling shoots. And everybody knows that Cristiano is having a smashing season on top of the previous smashing season, probably clearing the tables on more than one football awards galas before the year reaches its end. And anybody who follows football enough to know Gareth Bale exists knows he's only lost games before breaking his ankle.

 

"All forgotten tomorrow!" Chris Gunter reassures him in another text but Gareth knows it's not the whole truth. Where one news hound has smelled blood, others will soon gather to get their share of the catch.

He notices it when he innocently opens his front door to leave the house.

 

*FLASHFLASFLASH* rattle rattle *FLASHFLASFLASH*

There's a wall of cameras and voice recorders pointed at him as soon as he peeks outside.

He slams the front door shut and locks it, flees back to the flat and slumps down on the floor leaning his back on the inside of another locked door.

Gareth knows he's being melodramatic but he can't help thinking about Princess Di. Wrecked car in the Parisian tunnel, lights flashing all around. White roses on the top of a coffin, two serious boys, heads bowed down; he was eight and wondered how horrible it would be, to stand there and stare blindly at the card that read "Mummy".

Has anybody ever survived a lifetime of this?

 

It isn't much better back in Wales. At least one thing is good about being a professional footballer: he doesn't have to make a living out of harassing perfectly decent middle-aged couples on their front yard and ask if their son has dated boys or girls and if he's ever talked about Cristiano Ronaldo.

Thank God his mother has sense of humour.

"We had to plough through them like a herd of sheep just to go shopping!" she says over  the phone, once Gareth gets through, and laughs.

Gareth persuades his parents to leave for a holiday on a private island on the Caribbean, he will pay for it and get everything arranged. They're reluctant at first, wanting to stay home but give in eventually, hearing how sorry and desperate their boy sounds.

Gareth's unlisted number leaks out. He gets a stack of prepaid SIM cards to change to a new one every time calls from unknown numbers start coming in.

 

He doesn't send his new number to Cristiano.

Not that he doesn't miss him; he aches to feel his strong arms around him, to see his smile, to hear him murmuring sweet nothings in his deep voice and cutely accented English.

Gareth just needs some time to think where they are. He's beginning to wonder if he has had a tad too much idol worship towards Cristiano for a foundation of a healthy relationship.

The atmosphere of their last encounter, just yesterday, could be best described as a frozen conflict. They didn't fight, but it was quite clear that Cristiano didn't appreciate Gareth kicking him in the face and calling him a fucking idiot in front of Wayne Rooney and Gareth was resentful because of the coke incident, and because of the aftereffect of the jello shots he was painfully suffering.

After Wayne left, they had some eeriely quiet, a bit hostile hangover sex that was more about physical release than actual shared intimacy, and Gareth left as soon as he felt safe to drive. They parted with polite kisses, Gareth wishing Cristiano luck in his next game, last traces of black liner still around his eyes.

 

The story dies in a couple of days because nobody comments, no pictures emerge and neither Daily Mail nor The Sun or anybody else have been able to locate any sources to add to the initial News of the World taxi driver exclusive.

Gareth still doesn't feel secure enough to leave his secret safe place.

“You can’t just hide here forever”, Aaron says. Chris agrees. “Come on, we love you, but you should go back home.”

Gareth, who sits between them on the living room sofa, just hangs his head deeper over the controller like the world depends on his success in his game.

Chris and Aaron look at each other and shake their heads. Aaron says something to Chris; apparently funny because Chris laughs and answers in a joking tone. The both just look at Gareth for a moment and burst out in laughter.

Gareth squirms on his seat between them. “I hate you.”

Chris and Aaron exchange another couple of words and laugh again.

“Please don’t speak Welsh over my head. It’s rude.” Gareth mumbles, frowning.

“We’ll go completely C _ymraeg_ if that’s what it takes to get you out of here”, Chris says. Aaron nods in agreement.

 

“This is it”, Cris says to Wayne. “This is Gareth’s address.”

Rooney looks up the wall of the white townhouse. It looks uninhabited at the moment, but you never know. But he has one other thing in his mind, or up his nostrils.

“Do you mind if I pop in that fish’n’chips shop on the corner? It smells damn good and we ate nothing before we left.” he says.

Cristiano rolls his eyes. “Your diet is horrible, Wayne.”

“It’s fish! You’re supposed to eat fish.”

“It’s grease and fat, Rooney. Carbs in grease and fat.” Cris replies. “But whatever. Come when you’re done.”

Wayne leaves and Cris tries the front door. It opens to a narrow vestibule with another door. This one is locked.

Cristiano rings the doorbell and waits. He knocks on the door and waits. He rings the doorbell, knocks the door, bangs it with his fist and hollers “OPEN UP, IT’S ME, CRIS!” and waits. Nothing.

He calls Gareth’s number on his phone. Not a sound through the door. Maybe the boy’s not in, after all.

Where are you, Gareth?

 

“It’s here, Charlotte. Gareth has to be here. He’s not at his parents’.”

Emma is nervous. She shouldn’t be this needy, but she hasn’t been able to concentrate on anything for weeks now and she’s decided it’s enough. The tabloid story was the last straw: she needs to face Gareth for the last time, hear the truth straight from him, whatever it is.

She deserves a proper explanation, or at least a proper break-up. Not the vague _um, I need to figure some stuff out, is it okay if we don’t see for a while_ and complete radio silence after that.

Her big sister agreed to take her to London after watching her little sister still not being able to snap out of her puffy-eyed crying. Emma deserves closure; she's only sixteen and it's time for her to go on, Charlotte thinks.

Emma tries Gareth’s phone for the last time out on the pavement. No answer. She tries the front door. It opens to a narrow vestibule and they step in.

The space is not empty. Of all the people in Britain, fricking Cristiano Ronaldo stares at Gareth’s door with a phone in his hand, gnawing his lip anxiously, shifting his weight from one foot to another.

 

Cristiano snaps out of his trance after the front door has already opened. He half expects Gareth but it’s not, it’s two girls, both with long brown hair.

“Hi”, he says. “Coming over? Seems nobody’s home.”

The younger girl squeezes past Cristiano to the door. She knocks it, then bangs it with her fist exactly like Cristiano just did a couple of minutes ago. “GARETH! IT’S ME, EMMA! WE NEED TO TALK!” she hollers through the door.

No answer.

Cristiano shrugs his shoulders. “I told you”, he says.

 

The door opens again. All three turn their hopeful faces immediately its way.

It’s Wayne Rooney with a package that smells of vinegar and deep-fry oil.

“It’s cod”, he says, looking at the sunken expressions on Cristiano’s and two unknown girls’ faces.

He moves the package from his right to his left hand, wipes his right hand on the hem of his jacket and extends it towards the girls. “Wayne Rooney”, he says and shakes Emma’s and Charlotte’s hands, a questioning expression on his face.

The girls automatically introduce themselves.

“Emma Rhys-Jones. Gareth’s girlfriend… I mean, I used to date him.”

“Charlotte. Emma’s sister.”

Wayne takes a slow look at Cristiano. “Girlfriend”, he says, stretching the word, lifting his eyebrows. “So, there actually _was_ a girlfriend.”

The corners of his mouth start twitching from a laughter that’s crawling its way out of his lips. It catches Cristiano who struggles to keep a straight face because he knows the words Wayne is thinking about. And oh yes, of course Wayne continues to say it out loud.

“It wasn’t just a code word for…”Wayne starts but Cristiano slaps his hand over his mouth. “Don’t… say… it…”, Cris manages to say through guffaws of laughter, “Or… you’re dead!”

_Rude dickheads,_ Emma thinks. She feels her cheeks burning, she doesn’t like to be ridiculed and she surely feels like it’s exactly what’s happening here. Is this what Gareth has become, too, have they changed him so fast? To an obnoxious millionaire who thinks he can treat regular people like shit?

She shouldn’t have come. But at the same time she craves closure, an explanation, more than ever, and what’s more, she’s not going to back down now, not in front of those two idiots, not from the front of their laughing faces.

Emma has her sources, too.  She grabs her phone again. The immediate answer boosts her confidence, she straightens her back not to look sunken down in front Wayne and Cristiano.

“Hi Mel! Is Theo there? Do you think he’d know where Gareth is? I haven’t reached him and I really need to talk to him… I’ll tell you later, okay, I promise… Could you do that? Please, yes, thanks a lot.”

She ends the call, the phone beeps with a message and she calls another number.

“Theo! Glad you answered. This is Emma. Look, I really hope you could help. It’s about Gareth. I’m worried.” She lets care and empathy leak in her voice and it seems to pay off in the other end. “Oh thank you. You’re a good friend to help. It’s not for me, he needs it… No, I won’t tell you told me.”

Emma works hard to hide a triumphant smile. Her phone beeps with another message and she shows it to her sister. “He’s at Gunter and Ramsey’s. This is the address”, she says.

Charlotte frowns worried. “It’s far”, she says.

“It’s not a problem”, Cristiano says. “Let’s go together. We can take my car.”

Emma looks skeptical. Wayne looks her in the eye. “He’s gonna go there anyway. And we came on his SUV. It has a real backseat”, he says.

The Welsh sisters look at each other, shrugging their shoulders in unison.

“Why not”, Emma says.

“Thanks”, Charlotte accompanies.

 

Chris and Aaron are not expecting anybody. They both stand up by the sound of the doorbell, and Aaron goes to answer the door.

"Well this is a surprise", Chris hears him say. "Come on in."

Aaron steps out of the way. Smell of deep-fry oil and vinegar creeps into the room as the four guests step in.

Gareth turns his head to the door. He is silent for a moment and then his eyes zigzag suspiciously between Chris and Aaron.

"Have you been plotting this behind my back? Is this some bloody intervention to get me out?"

"No, no", the other welsh boys deny furiously. "We're as surprised as you are", Aaron says.

"Hi, Gareth", Cristiano and Emma say simultaneously.

"We need --" they start just as simultaneously, but Cris beats Emma to finishing his sentence.

"Gareth, we need a media strategy."

Gareth looks at the Portuguese gloomily from under his brows and puts the game controller down. "How about a strategy where you don't get me drunk and I don't end up doing stupid things that get me in headlines?" he says, his voice rising just a little.

"I'm sorry", Cristiano says and sits down next to him. "You're right. I screwed up. I'm sorry."

Gareth notices that everyone around them seems to be holding their breaths not to miss a word of their exchange.

"Let's take this to my room. Come on", he says and rises from the sofa. "Christopher's guest bedroom, I mean", he continues pointedly over his shoulder, "Not mine."

 

Gareth sits down on the bed and doesn't wait for Cristiano to start talking.

"What the hell was it the other night with the shots and coke? Look, I'm sorry I kicked you, I didn't mean that, but shit, you don't do that to people", he says. When Cristiano doesn't come up with an immediate answer, Gareth continues.

"How full of shit are you, Cristiano? I mean, I have read your interviews, and you know what you're saying. I know you party and stuff but you're always so... anti-drugs, clean living. If it's all a lie, I'm fucking disappointed. And even if you... just don't force it on someone else, understand? Why did you do it to me?"

Cristiano is squirming, leaning his weight on one foot, then another, and finally sits down next to Gareth.

"I don't know, Gareth. It was true when I said I hadn't done it in years and I always mean it when I say it in media... But this time, I just saw an opportunity to..." he searches for words because he is beginning to realize that his idea has been utterly stupid.

He looks Gareth in the eye and continues. "You're so sweet and dear and young, Gareth. Sometimes I just get the urge to... shit, I'm stupid -- It's like I want to spoil you, like you're so innocent and I want to introduce you to the vices of the world."

Cris hangs his head, embarrassed from his confession. Gareth shakes his head, angry but mildly amused by the dark romance of Cristiano's vision.

"You're right, Cris, you're stupid. I don't need that in my life. I like you for completely other reasons." He looks for eye contact and looks at Cristiano very sharply. "What do you even see in me, Cristiano? Why do you want to change me? Am I not good as I am?"

Cris is devastated to hear Gareth's doubts.

"No, I don't want to change you! I'm sorry if I make you feel that way", he says. He takes Gareth's hands in his, tentatively at first but firmly when he realizes that Gareth actually lets him do it, and looks sternly in his blue eyes. "If you think you're anything less than perfect you're just insulting me because I have impeccable taste and I'm crazy about you", he proclaims.

 

The door cracks open. Emma feels she's waited long enough for her turn.

 She stands in front of Gareth.

“I've been wanting to talk to you for so long. It was horrible to be dumped like that, with no talk, no explanation. You could have just told you are gay. I wouldn't have had to cry for weeks and wonder what's wrong with me, why I'm not good enough for you any more.”

Gareth shifts away from Cris on the bed, takes Emma's hand and pulls her to sit between them.

“I'm sorry I hurt you, Emma, but it's not been that easy for me either, you know. I meant it when I said I need time to figure things out", he says, squeezing her hand. He lets out a small smile. "And for the record, I think I'm definitely bisexual. I don’t fancy you any less now”, he says. It brings out a chuckle from Emma and a furious glance from Cristiano's eyes.

“Hey, don’t flirt with your ex when I’m right here!” he warns.

Gareth gives him a pointed look and reaches for his hand over Emma's lap.

“But I'm in love with this jealous possessive hothead. He does everything to make my life miserable but I choose to be with him", he says.

Gareth turns his eyes back to Emma and looks at her pleadingly. "Please don't out us, Emma. I know you have right to be mad at me but please, keep it, will you?"

Cristiano rubs her shoulder from his side. "Can you be so kind, please?" he asks.

Emma nods and hugs them, first Gareth, then Cris. "Of course", she says and stands up to leave the room.

She glances back over her shoulder on her way out of the opened door.

It's totally weird to see her Gareth kissing another boy but in a way it's not. When Cristiano Ronaldo's bronzed fingers caress his pale cheek and their lips move like they'd be tasting something delicious after a long time of starving, it's, in fact, really, really hot. She feels privileged to witness the sight and can't think of ever wishing anything bad upon either of them.

 

"It seems they're kissing and making up", Emma says to the rest of the crew.

Chris Gunter throws his fists in the air shouting "Yes!" and points at Aaron. "I told you! You lost! You're coming to Glastonbury with me next summer."

Aaron frowns. "I would have gone to Glastonbury anyway", he mumbles, mouth full of chips from Wayne Rooney's takeout portion.

"And stay in a tent!" Chris beams.

Aaron groans. "Can't we just put up a tent in a nice hotelroom?"

Chris throws a long look at him. "Aaron, after all the years of rooming with you for camps and away games, don't you think I've seen you put up a tent in a hotel room enough times?"

 

"You said something about a media strategy", Gareth says after breaking the slow long kiss.

"Yes", Cris says, straightening his back. "We have help. There's a meeting going on right now. Or we can reschedule another for tomorrow if you need time to think."

Gareth knows he's been hiding away long enough already. It's time to go on.

"Please take me home", he says. "I want to go to work."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made Chris Gunter bilingual like Aaron, don't know if he speaks Welsh at all really.  
> I have no idea if the incident in this chapter would make this kind of news, just made it all up.
> 
> #$^¥¥
> 
> So much red card shock and pain. Somebody take this hurt away:'(


	8. Damage control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _We've got to hold on to what we've got_  
>  _'Cause it doesn't make a difference if we make it or not_  
>  _We've got each other and that's a lot for love_  
>  _We'll give it a shot_  
>   
> 
> (Bon Jovi – Livin’ On a Prayer, Bon Jovi, Sambora, Child 1986)
> 
>  
> 
> The boys get some professional help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Okay, on scale from 1 to 10, how embarrassing is it to quote Bon Jovi lyrics?
> 
> 2\. There will be an original character in a decisive role in this chapter, a communications consultant. His name is a reference to chick lit world; I named him Brandon Lucas after the hubby character Luke Brandon in ‘Shopaholic’ books by Sophie Kinsella.
> 
> 3\. I also wrote a footballer shipper here, just for fun.
> 
> 4\. It took a longer time to write this than I expected, I was distracted a lot but will maybe rant more about it in the end notes so you can get on with reading the actual chapter.
> 
> Enjoy!

 

 

“You didn’t bet on them, did you? That’s just _vile_ , man”, Wayne Rooney says.

Chris Gunter and Aaron Ramsey glance at each other. Aaron shrugs his shoulders, Chris flashes a smile and rolls his eyes.

“He just wouldn’t believe me at that Barclays party! Remember, Aaron, you were all ‘no, they’re just talking to each other’”, Chris says.

“Yeah, but Chris always thinks everybody is gay”, Aaron explains. “And in a secret relationship. Remember when we watched the World Cup?” he asks Chris.

“I didn’t. I _was_ there”, Wayne cuts in and gets a tired eye-roll from Aaron.

“Yeah, yeah, we all know how well England played there”, he deadpans and turns back to his Welsh friend, “What I was saying, remember, Chris, every time Torres and Sergio Ramos had their hands the same way or made the same face or were in the fucking same _picture_ you pointed at them and screamed ‘the _body language,_ look at their body language!’”

“But I was right this time! I could have been right then as well”, Chris defends.

“We’ll wait for the confirmation on that”, Aaron says.

The bedroom door opens. It hasn’t taken that long for Gareth to collect the stuff he has brought to Gunter’s flat in his duffel bag.

“What were you talking about?” he asks Chris.

“Liverpool”, Wayne replies quickly.

Gareth accepts the answer without blinking an eye; his mind is already elsewhere. He goes to give hugs to Chris and Aaron.

“Thank you lads, sorry for being such a pain to you these past days.”

“Oh, don’t worry! It’s been fun having you around”, Chris assures.

Gareth shakes his head with a chuckle. “I know it hasn’t. I haven’t. But thanks. I enjoyed it with you guys. Even when I didn’t say anything for hours.”

“He really didn’t”, Aaron explains to the rest. “If we asked anything about the news story or Ronaldo, he went completely catatonic. I’ve seen plants and rocks that are more talkative.”

Gareth and Cristiano get ready to leave for their meeting. Aaron lends them his car which is genius move: he still hasn’t decided to what flashier vehicle he should upgrade from his old, hideously green Ford Fiesta, and nobody will look at them twice in _that_ car.

The rest are heading for a lunch together in Cristiano’s car, which Wayne promises to drive back to Manchester in one piece.

“Will you please keep quiet about… _this_ while you’re somewhere?” Gareth pleads worriedly before leaving, gesturing haphazardly towards himself and Cristiano, who holds Gareth’s fingertips idly laced with his own.

Of course they will, everyone assures; “Like we didn’t have anything else to talk about than you!” Aaron exclaims, and Gareth tugs at Cristiano’s hand.

Their shared newness is so preciously fragile, yet they look so _together_ , cohesive, belonging. It’s like one of those disturbing optical illusions made to distract the eye: makes no sense until it does.

 

The London-based communications firm is the same office that arranged the January kickoff party and Cristiano has heard good things about its founder and main owner who still tends the key clients, especially the ones needing help with sudden publicity crises. He’s been recommended to Cristiano both by the media people of Manchester United and his agent and he takes heed of their words.

An assistant sees them from the glass-walled lobby through electrically locked doors, to a meeting room that is closed behind sleek solid walls.

They’re welcomed politely and introduced around quickly. The meeting has been going on already without them and the hopes of finding the “lost lamb” – Gareth is addressed as such – have not been very high; the others quite clearly know what they’re on about and Gareth is just barely getting hang of the conversation.

Since they haven’t been able to actually sit down with the two footballers themselves, the ad hoc PR team has wandered off to some far-fetched speculation about possible consequences of the tabloid story and its possible follow-ups that have not yet come to light. Unfortunately it’s one of these discussions – a presentation of a scenario of Cristiano coming out as gay or being outed publicly - that’s going on at the moment boys join the meeting.

Some number cruncher that holds a junior position in Cristiano’s agent’s firm (Jorge Mendes is not present) has been picking out figures from an Excel spreadsheet reflected on the screen in front of the room and moves on to a PowerPoint that has some of the key numbers visualized.

“As I was saying, we have a range of estimates on the effect on Cristiano’s brand value in different markets, and not _all_ of them show a negative result”, he says and talks the group through the colourful columns and pie diagrams. He goes on about target groups and demographics, alienating and attracting clientele. “…it’s highly uncertain if it will be enough to replace the loss of marketing potential in some other areas”, he concludes at one point.

Gareth stares at the screen and all that he reads on it and the man’s words say the same thing to him.

_Being seen with you costs to Cristiano, Gareth. He will lose money because of you._

He suppresses the humiliation he is feeling. He can’t have been dragged here just to hear this, can he? If he can stick through this presentation, there will surely be discussion that concerns him, too.

Him in some other role than as a risk to Cristiano’s brand value, that is.

If he only endures this painful side track, the pounds, euros and dollars. The numbers that start bleeding into each other and turning foggy in his eyes.

He can’t.

He moves his chair back as carefully as he can, but it chinks irritatingly.

“Excuse me, a minute…” he mumbles and storms out of the door, bright red patches burning on his face and neck.

 

Gareth leans on the basin in the unlocked bathroom and runs cold water from the tap. He bows his head down, lets the water wash over his hands and wrists and doesn’t hear the meeting room door opening and closing.

He hears the footsteps only when they’re right behind his back. Cristiano’s hand turns off the water flow. His arms close around Gareth, pull Gareth’s back tight to his firm chest. Cristiano’s head leans over his shoulder, there’s a hand on Gareth’s hair, pressing their cheeks together.

Cristiano rocks him gently from side to side, presses chaste kisses on his cheek. “I’m sorry. That was totally unnecessary. This was meant to help us both, I swear. I’m telling Jorge to sack the guy, I promise.”

“They’re putting a fucking price tag on it. On _me_.” Cristiano feels that Gareth’s breath is uneven and he’s shaking and squeezes him even tighter.

“It’s not about you. It’s not personal, you know? But I know, it’s wrong. They’re wrong. You’re worth everything to me, Gareth. Believe me.”

 

Brandon Lucas, CEO, owner and founder of Plan B Communications, notices his young clients leaving the room and after the number cruncher’s presentation he politely excuses himself to follow them; this meeting is, after all, about them and right now it’s pointless to continue.

He can’t make out the words but recognizes the voices. He approaches the half-open bathroom door cautiously.

The puzzle rearranges in front of his eyes, pieces fall to their right places.

_Prioritize_ , he commands himself. The meeting room may now take care of itself for as long as is needed; he’ll send an assistant to get them coffee, tea and snacks and they can talk about whatever they want, preferably not about numbers.

That’s the instant message he gets from Cristiano, who lifts his glaring, defiant eyes to answer his polite knock, arms protectively around Gareth who looks standoffish and shy.

“What the hell was that for? This was supposed to be helpful!” Cristiano says.

“I know. I’m sorry, the background information was out of place there. We’re in it to help you. Both.” Brandon looks at each of the young men as sincerely as he can manage. “It’s better you come to my office for a moment. I want to hear you before we go back to the meeting room, if it suits you. Please.”

Cristiano decides to trust the man and Gareth comes along; it’s definitely a better option than returning to the meeting after his mortifying escape.

 

“Oh boy”, Brandon says when he closes the office door. “I had no idea. I read you so wrong.”

He really has assumed the real story is the usual, another set of young footballers getting drunk and in trouble; these two being something between good friends and drinking buddies, the biggest problem being explaining away Ronaldo’s obvious bad influence on the younger player who has had the cleanest possible previous reputation. He could have bet that going to the gay village has been a coincidence or a drunken whim, just for a laugh.

But what has happened after Gareth storming out has changed it all. The way Cristiano wrapped himself around Gareth’s trembling shoulders and back, soothing him cheek to cheek like his own life depended on relieving the boy’s anxiety. And how they look now in his office, sitting right next to each other on the edge of the sofa: Gareth resting his arms on his knees, Cristiano’s other hand behind his back, another resting on Gareth’s joined hands, covering them, brown eyes glaring like he needed to protect the younger player from every possible danger and harm anyone, including Brandon, could cause him.

_It’s us against the world_ , their body language says.

Brandon thinks about Romeo and Juliet and feels like Friar Lawrence.

But no, he’s not going to be like that, he’s not marrying two desperate, dying teenagers; he’s trying the complete opposite.

_I must get them alive and sane through this_.

He starts it easily.

“So, what’s the real story about that taxi ride?” he asks.

Gareth and Cristiano glance at each other.

“It’s simple. We were going home”, Cristiano says.

“Through Canal Street? I thought you live in Cheshire.”

Cristiano tells about his flat.

“It’s on a side street, a block from the canal. You know, sometimes I want to stay in town if I go out, sometimes I want privacy. I have always people over in my house and media knows about the place. This is different.”

Brandon can understand that. “And they don’t know about this? Press, I mean?”

“Not so far. I don’t live there officially. My friend’s company owns it and another company rents it.”

Brandon chuckles. “Multilayered hiding operation, that is?”

“Something like that.”

Brandon nods his head, thinking.

“Some of the neighbours may leak it after this story if they’ve seen you around often. Or visitors, if you have them, or hired help. But it’s not necessarily a bad thing. It’s an easy explanation for you hanging around there. But I don’t think we will act on it, it happens if it happens. It’s just a thing we need not worry about.”

“Do you mean there’s something we need to worry about?” Gareth cuts in.

Brandon looks at him, then Cristiano.

“It depends on you. In a way there’s less to worry about than you may now think. And more importantly, what you need to care about is probably something totally different than you think”, he says.

“And?” Gareth asks. The consultant is speaking in riddles, which is completely unnecessary.

“How long have you two been together?” Brandon asks. Cutting through bullshit to the middle of the case is the fastest way to get things rolling, he decides, and waits patiently for the moment of bafflement to pass and the boys to come up with an answer.

“A few months”, Cristiano says finally.

“Who knows about it?”

Cristiano and Gareth look at each other, counting in their minds.

“A few friends”, Cristiano says. “My ex”, Gareth adds.

“Your clubs?”

“No, Rooney is the only one from Manchester who does”, Cris says.

“Giggsy does”, Gareth says but Cris shakes his head. “He just has a dirty mind, he knows nothing for sure.”

“Gunter and Ramsey know now”, Gareth says.

 “How did you feel about telling them?” Brandon asks.

“I didn’t, really, it just… happened”, Cris says. “Same”, Gareth adds. “And they were so… _normal_. And it was a relief.”

Brandon listens closely, leaning back in his chair.

“All right then. You haven’t told your families, you haven’t told your managers or other club officials. The latter is okay, at this point, it’s your choice what you want to tell them about your personal life.”

“What about the family part?” Cristiano asks.

“You wouldn’t want them to find out through the media, would you?” Brandon says.

Gareth and Cristiano shake their heads in agreement.

“With media, we are in an easy place right now, believe or not”, the consultant says. “There are probably people after your story. Because it would be breaking news, unfortunately. For the tabloids, of course, but also in more serious media. Every BBC talk show would want your in-depth interview.”

The boys can grasp that. They keep nodding, and Brandon goes on. “But you have the perfect excuse… no, the perfect _reason_ to keep hanging out together. You can be friends, it’s allowed, there’s no reason why you couldn’t. You share the same world. You’re both footballers, you’re ambitious and good, young and single. You don’t have to comment to _anybody_ on anything more.”

 

Brandon turns a photo frame on his desk their way.

“I’m gay myself”, he says. He smiles in the photo, his arm on the shoulder of a nice-looking blond man. A smiling girl leans her head to their joined arms; she is eight, maybe ten years old and has distinguishing down syndrome features on her smiling face. “I’ve known it since forever. I’m forty, I’ve been out over half my life, I have a fantastic husband and we have a lovely daughter.”

”But still, if you two would come out, it would be – “ Brandon blows air out from between his lips, shaking his head. “Huge. Life-changing, even for me.” He squints his eyes and leans forward. “But this isn’t about me. This isn’t about the world. Or being poster boys for LGBT issues. Or media or anybody else. This is about you. Your life.” He pauses.

“Now, listen closely. I say this to the both of you”, he says, leaning forward on his desk, pointing his finger in the air.

The boys nod under his intensive gaze.

“I absolutely forbid you coming out in public before you are perfectly comfortable with who you are. And that doesn’t only go for being at ease with yourself inside your own mind. You need to feel the same when you are with the people that are close to you in your real life, the people you trust.” he says. “And even then, take your time. Build confidence, build support.”

Cristiano notices the change in Gareth’s demeanor. He is not shying away anymore; he is attentive, listens closely; his blue eyes are focused in a way that tells his brain is ticking behind them, perceiving the information, organizing it, attaching it to his thoughts and experiences, already working towards resolutions, decisions. Cristiano can see that he _learns_ and is impressed.

_This is important_ , he thinks. _This is what enchants me in him. He has enormous potential and is humble enough to seek growth. It’s a privilege to witness it._

“I will write down some suggestions for how to go on for tomorrow. It’s just simple things, how to answer certain questions, how to react to different kind of rumours. Where to act and where to just wait things out. The words ‘career’ and ‘brand’ and ‘value’ are irrelevant right now, we will delve them later. What we focus on is keeping you sane and emotionally safe. I will schedule a new meeting with the team, I think they have finished their sandwiches by now”, Brandon says. “Are you OK now?” he asks worriedly.

“I think we are”, Cristiano says, looking tentatively at Gareth.

“I am”, he says; the look in his sky blue eyes tells he’s already waiting to get alone with Cris, who gives his joined hands another firm squeeze, his other hand on the crook of Gareth’s neck and shoulder, one fingertip reaching for the bare skin on his neck.

Brandon smiles at the sight. How cute they are. _Lucky young bastards_ , he thinks with all possible tenderness.

“Great”, he says out loud. “Now go home and rest, it’s been a draining day. I promise you’re in good hands.”

 

Gareth lifts his legs over Cristiano’s lap on his London home sofa. “Can you just hold me?” he asks in the smallest voice.

“I can”, Cristiano whispers in his ear as he presses Gareth’s head to his shoulder and starts gently stroking his wavy dark hair.

Gareth’s fists that have been curled up close to his chin soften slowly. He presses his open hand on Cristiano’s chest, slides it across the sculpted pecs until he finds a place where he can feel the steady heartbeat.

“Thank you”, Gareth says.

“For what?” Cristiano asks.

“You came for me. To claim and save me. You are my prince”, Gareth says with a chuckle.

“I got you in this mess to begin with. I’m so sorry for that. I don’t know how to apologize enough.”

Gareth looks at him mischievously.

“You don’t? I can think of something. You _could_ start with getting down on your knees. And use that gorgeous mouth for a _really_ good apology.”

“Oh yeah? What if that’s not enough?”

“Then we’ll think of something else.”

“I like that”, Cristiano says, cupping his hand over Gareth’s crotch.

“You better make me like it too”, Gareth says and pulls Cristiano’s face down for a kiss.

 

                                                                                                                                                        

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two things distracted me.
> 
> First, I spent a lot of time reading a GREAT Cristiano Ronaldo biography by Guillem Balagué, I liked his analysis and style of writing very much, and he gave interesting insight to the way top level sports journalism works and mixes with sports personalities' personal brand pr work. (I must apologize for not being really able to utilize that in this chapter, the whole PR firm shit is pure fantasy here.)
> 
> Second, I sat on my laptop, trying to write this, but watched videos about Blake Wheeler (WInnipeg Jets) and Evgeni Malkin (Pittsburgh Penguins) fighting on ice, reading commentary on how "honorable" it was and tried to make sense of it.  
> I will never understand NHL.
> 
> Anyway, my brain went to this weird malfunction state and all that it said was BLAKE WHEELER. Blake. Wheeler. BLAKE. Wheeler. Wheels. Blake. WHEELER. Even his name is unreal. Its like from a daytime soap or a superhero movie or a badass hard-boiled detective novel. I want to have Will Arnett voice to say it out loud. And he's 6'5". I love tall men. And he lost his helmet on the first punch and seeing a hockey player's face and hair is always a treat. Not always, but when it's Blake Wheeler it is.
> 
> So I was distracted. By Blake Wheeler, #26, 30 yrs, captain, Minnesota-born. Daddy hot is my kinda hot.
> 
> Ahrrm, how did you like the chapter, by the way?


	9. Meet the Bales

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What the title says, short and sweet.

 

Gareth blabbers more and more nervously the closer they get to Cardiff. When M4 crosses Severn, he goes on about the house for what seems like the millionth time.

“It’s a semi, you know, like two houses in one, or two apartments in the same house. It’s not fancy – it’s the same I lived all my childhood, my room is still the same although they could use it for an extra room, it’s only three bedrooms and I’ve asked… but they don’t want to move.”

Cristiano is almost grateful that Gareth is so fidgety because it makes it easier to hide his own nerves in the situation. Gareth’s parents’ house is the last thing he needs to worry about – the modest piece of British suburbia doesn’t scream money even in middle class, let alone in pro footballer standards, but from the pictures Cristiano has seen it’s luxurious compared to his childhood surroundings.

Gareth continues his rambling. “…And if my mum asks you any of her embarrassing safe sex questions, don’t answer her _anything_ , you know, obviously you don’t have to and I’ve told her I will _die_ in front of her eyes if she does.”

Cristiano swallows but hides it with a chuckle; well, he really wouldn’t want to have a conversation about their sex life with Gareth’s parents, either.

He puts on his most reassuring face and rubs Gareth’s bicep, boy, he’s tense, he shouldn’t have to squeeze the steering wheel that hard.

Gareth insisted on being the one to drive them to Wales. “It’s my home, I’m driving! And the neighbours are used to seeing my car there.”

The latter was a winning argument. Cristiano doesn’t want to draw any extra attention to himself; having to put himself under the eyes of Mr. and Mrs. Bale is quite enough for one day, thank you very much.

“Relax, Gareth”, Cristiano says. “Don’t worry. I’m sure I’ll love them. They are the ones that have brought you in the world, they must be the best.”

He loves the smile his words draw on his boyfriend’s face, melting the worry a little.

“They’ll love you too”, Gareth says. “I know I do”, he adds softly, blushing, and focuses his eyes on the road ahead, hiding the shy smile saying the confession out loud always brings on his face.

 

It’s not the first time Gareth is going to meet his parents since they came back from their holiday. He was forced to drive to Cardiff to tell them the real deal behind the newspaper story that had turned their everyday life into a circus for days; he knew he owed them that much.

Besides, his mother insisted on it. The Caribbean sun had left her tanned, laid-back and cheerful but none of that hid the motherly iron will to make sure everything was all right with her son’s life.

Gareth started with blurting the truth.

“Remember when I told I had met someone? It was him.”

His mother let it sink in slowly. She kept her questions at minimum, let Gareth open up as much as he was willing to do at once. She felt a wave of sympathy and care; their son would have a hard time hiding something so big in his life if he chose to try and keep it private, and he would probably have an even harder time to deal with the vast media attention if the relationship became public.

She seemed less concerned hearing that Gareth was dating a boy than with who the person was.

“I’m sorry to say this, Gareth, but his reputation… He seems to have slept around a lot. I just… I hope you can trust him. I wouldn’t want to see you hurt.”

For someone who didn’t want to see her son hurt Debbie chose the wrong words. They hurt him, she sensed it; a shadow of pain veiled Gareth’s expressive eyes and he went very silent before he answered her in a cracked voice.

“Do you think I haven’t thought about it, mum? Don’t you think I know it?” he gnawed his lip and looked away to keep tears out of his eyes. “But I don’t want to be afraid”, he said and turned his eyes back in hers. “I’m only eighteen, mum. It’s possible it won’t last forever. I want to enjoy what we have while it lasts.” He looked straight at her, his jaw clanked tight. “I’m in love with him, mum. If I think that he will eventually break my heart, it will ruin every moment we are together.”

Debbie had to draw him in a tight hug. “I’m sorry, luv!” she said, “I’m sorry I said that. I want you to be happy. BE happy. Please.”

“I am, mum”, Gareth mumbled from inside her embrace. “But please, let me _breathe_ ”.

“In a minute, son, in a minute” she laughed and wrapped her arms even tighter around Gareth’s wide shoulders.

 

Gareth’s father, on the other hand, seemed more concerned about his son dating a man than with who the man actually was.

Gareth had chosen to talk to his parents separately; the way his mother took the news worked as a rehearsal for talking to his father.

At first, Frank Bale didn’t say much at all. Then, he quite clearly bit his tongue not to say much at all.

“What is it, dad? Just say it. I can see you want to”, Gareth demanded. He wasn’t sure what to expect; it looked a bit like the corner of his father’s lips was twitching into a smile but it could also be hidden anger.

“What, dad? Please!” a streak of despair leaked into Gareth’s voice.

Eventually Frank turned his face to his anxious son. “It’s …” he started and sighed. “It’s a shame you can’t have children together. Just think about the _genes_ ”, he said.

Gareth rolled his eyes. “Da-AD!” he moaned. “God, we’ve just started _dating_! It’s not like we’re getting married or starting a family, I mean, man, _seriously_.” He shook his head. “ _Promise_ me you won’t talk like that when he comes over. Please. Or I’ll never bring him home.”

 

It takes a while until he does, anyway. Cristiano has lots of games and wants to catch up on training; he’s been missing some of his personal workout sessions during the days he’s been after Gareth and in meetings with Plan B Communications.

With the PR company, most of the suggestions that Brandon Lucas has brought to the table have been quite simple; he has mainly concentrated on increasing the boys’ understanding of the strategies of different media organizations in their news gathering so that they can respond to them accordingly. He has, as a bonus, given Gareth some tutoring for interviews, given him tips on how to use his voice and relax in front of the camera and microphone.

Some of the media manoeuvres Brandon has suggested have seemed quite far-fetched to Gareth’s ears, such as anonymously sponsoring LGBT sensitivity courses for journalists and journalism students, but Cristiano is willing to pay for everything Brandon offers; maybe out of gratitude, maybe as a means of trying to make amends to Gareth for the distress he’s put him through. Instead of buying jewelry he buys training on respectful treatment of sexual diversity for future journalists.

 

Cristiano pushes Gareth to make the most of his recovery time, too. He asks about his ankle every day, touches and feels it whenever they are together.

It's not like Cristiano says things Gareth doesn't know already; Gareth has, over the years, been familiar with injury and pain, but he values Cristiano's persistence and care.

"I know you do all the rehab workout they give you, but Gareth, you should ask for more. You can't just recover to what you were before. You need to find something you can take further. When you play, you improve all the time. If you stay where you are, you fall behind. Go to your physio coach and trainers. Go over and over again until you get a real training program that really develops you and allows the injury to heal at the same time." The look in Cristiano's brown eyes is so serious he looks almost worried; they're in bed, Cris lays propped on one elbow to look Gareth in the eye. "And with your team, be active, be involved. Don't let them forget you are a part of them. Go to the dressing room even on the days you don't have to. Do all the individual training you can alongside them. Ask it to be planned so that you can." Cristiano runs his fingers through a strand of Gareth's hair. "I want you to be the best you can. You will show them. You will show me. I'm already so proud of you, Gareth. I want everybody to see the same."

 

Gareth parks the car on the short concrete driveway of his parents’ home. The front door of the house opens before he even turns down the engine, but thank goodness mum and dad stay on the doorway waiting to greet them. He couldn’t deal with the extra fuss of hugs and screams and look-at-you-darlings in the front yard, dozens of neighbourhood windows facing it.

Gareth has never seen Cristiano quite like he is when he steps inside. He looks so serious, cautious, shy even. He hands Gareth’s mother a beautiful bouquet of flowers and some artisan chocolates as humbly as he was presenting gifts to baby Jesus and looks utterly surprised when he’s pulled in a warm hug; his head makes a small, polite bow when he shakes Gareth’s father’s hand and says “It’s an honour to meet you, sir” out of all possible things.

He is so _respectful_ , takes such ridiculously vast care to make a good impression, Gareth observes. He almost has to fight back tears; there’s a lump in his throat out of pure love to how sweet Cristiano is right now. He is overwhelmingly _proud_ of him and it’s a different kind of pride than ever before.

 

“How did you two meet?” Debbie asks over lunch.

Cristiano has praised the food; he really thinks it’s delicious. It’s some white fish poached in oven, wrapped in parchment paper with herbs, a touch of black pepper and white wine ( _there’s a bit of butter but just enough for flavour_ , Debbie has informed him) with a side serving of steamed broccoli and cauliflower and a giant green salad, generous with baby spinach leaves and rocket salad, sprinkled with seeds and nuts and dressed lightly with a citrus-y vinaigrette dressing. _I’ve learned to make Gareth balanced meals over the years,_ Debbie has answered Cristiano’s compliments as if they haven’t been made on the taste but the nutritional value of the food.

The boys glance at each other after the mother's question.

“It was in a game”, Gareth says, “We started talking in my debut game, I asked him to swap shirts with me.”

“He played so well”, Cristiano says, “I was really impressed.”

That notion makes Gareth's dad beam with pride.

“Is that why you went so silent when I asked how the mood was in the team bus back home? Did you say something about taking a later ride?” Debbie aks.  _Shit, mum has the detailed memory of a criminal detective_ , Gareth thinks.

“Um… I guess.” Gareth mumbles.

Debbie frowns a little. _God, she’s doing the math and thinking of Emma. Or the bloody hooker party headlines about him,_ Gareth thinks.

“Wasn’t it August?” she asks and Gareth nudges Cristiano with his knee under the table, signaling for help.

“Yes, it was”, Gareth says slowly to buy time. “In the end of August.”

“We were hanging out as friends back then”, Cristiano says, “I really liked Gareth but couldn’t expect what the feelings would develop to. And even then, it took months to win him over.” He glances at Gareth with an admiring look. “He’s such a sweet, good boy. You have made a great job bringing him up, Mr. and Mrs. Bale.”

Oh yes. Cristiano Ronaldo knows how to score a perfect goal.

 

Cristiano is so wary of touching Gareth during the visit that Gareth is on the verge of laughing at him. They sit on the sofa, and Cris has just extended his hand to ruffle Gareth’s hair when his father enters the room; he flinches and pulls his hand back as quickly as he had burned it on a hot stove.

Gareth shoots him a scolding look. He takes the hand in his and, as casually as he can master, pulls it back and presses the palm to his cheek for one defiant moment.

 

They don’t stay overnight.

“You wouldn’t let him sleep in my room, anyway, and would keep up all night to listen to us. Maybe another time”, Gareth whispers to his mum, smiling mischievously as he hugs her his goodbyes.

She squeezes Cristiano tight. “Take good care of each other”, she says, “If you do, we’ll be there for you, no matter what.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just thought I'd share a piece of completely irrelevant headcanon about the appearance of my original characters. In my mind, Brandon looks like Andrea Pirlo and his husband (who has only been a guy in a photo) looks like Guti.
> 
> In the film "Confessions of a Shopaholic" Luke Brandon was played by Hugh Dancy but when I have read Shopaholic books I have pictured him looking a bit like Bradley Cooper.
> 
> I have no idea of Welsh home cooking and had no time for research. The fish dish is something I sometimes make myself.


	10. Miss you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introspection, trophies, fluff and smut.

 

As the spring progresses, the world around Gareth changes.

That sounds like a cliché; of course it does, as the nature wakes up from the winter. Only thing is that it awakens in a different way than before.

He doesn’t quite know what to think about the change. Most of the time it’s… nice. He’d hate to admit it to anybody else, but he’s too honest not to admit it to himself: he likes it. He likes the way he can feel blood running through his veins, spark of interest light up his eyes. It’s the pep in his step, as if he walked to music only he can hear.

Gareth starts to notice _guys_. Well, yeah, for the most of his life he has spent most of his time surrounded by boys and men; friends, teammates, coaches, trainers, managers. Obviously he _knows_ half of the population of the world is male and it wouldn’t come as a shock if even the majority was so, because in his life, it certainly looks like that.

But this is different. He _notices_ them. In a similar way that he once, as a boy, gradually started to realize that damn, maybe girls are not a totally useless waste of oxygen but something rather interesting after all.

Now there are not only girls that look or smell or walk of laugh in a way that catches his attention, but, like an expansion has been opened in his world, boys, too.

 

As said, most of the time he likes how it makes him feel. He feels alert and curious in a good way.

Alive.

And totally _sexy_.

He’s not the only one who notices it. He’s at a sports pub with Aaron Ramsey and Chris Gunter (that’s something new, too, Gareth has never liked going out that much but now – well, it’s nice to watch people sometimes and he has way too much time in his hands now that he isn’t playing, even though he has taken Cristiano’s advice and stepped up in his recovery workout) when Chris rolls his eyes at him.

“Oh Christ, Gareth, what is it with you? You just… _exude_ those fuck-me-vibes all over. Can you please… stop? Or mute it down?”

“What?” Gareth snaps out of a moment of deliberately looking away from a guy who has exactly the same hair as Cris, it’s fun to see his styles copied on the street.

Gareth reels back what Chris has just said and when he gets it, it’s his turn to roll his eyes. “I don’t _exude_ anything. C’mon”, he says and frowns because Chris has, without knowing, just spoiled his upbeat curiosity with a pang of mortifying guilt.

_What is wrong with me?_

 

Gareth doesn’t question it for even remotely homophobic reasons. With the amount of sex he has had and keeps having with Cristiano he’s quite over feeling guilty or confused about that. On the contrary, many pieces of past puzzles find their places in his mind easier than ever before.

He doesn’t remember how he used to explain to himself why hugs from certain friends might set his heart racing in a way that others didn’t. But he remembers how it felt; and what heaven and hell combined was the last Academy year.

The small dorm room, only a couple of feet between the beds, sensing without looking his roommate and best friend, the aura of Theo’s body under the blanket. Always so close but, to the knotted bundle of unspoken emotions in his chest, a million miles away.

What a relief it was to find a girlfriend.

 

So having an eye for guys is not that big of a deal, after all, but having it right now is. Gareth has no reason whatsoever to check out anybody because, hell, he already has the best. The absolute best. There are mornings when he wakes up convinced that the past half a year has been a deluded dream.

 _Come on, Gareth, you have the most amazing gorgeous boyfriend in the world, what the actual fuck is wrong with you?_ he asks himself.

It could be wise to ask it somebody else because he might get the sane, reassuring truth: not a thing. You’ve only just fallen in love and your hormones buzz high. That’s not infidelity if you don’t act on it; that’s human nature. That’s you, as a human, being a part of nature.

Embrace it, mate. Take the feeling home, leave the guys in the bar.

But no, Chris Gunter’s remark makes Gareth only draw in his shell and change the subject.

 

The season is peaking for Manchester United and Cristiano is totally focused on it. Eat, sleep, train, eat, sleep, play. Repeat.

Goals. He doesn’t miss anything, from anywhere. Header, right foot, right foot, left foot. Free kick, header, penalty. A towering, floating, important header in Italy.

Gareth is immensely proud of all those moments. He would love to witness every match with his own eyes but keeps to White Hart Lane for Spurs home games and sometimes gets to travel with them to away games, too. It’s nice to feel a part of the club even when he can’t play; he fits in with ease, it’s a relief not to feel like a lone satellite recuperating at home, away from everything.

Red Devils are on a track to greatness and Gareth is just humbled to sit by and watch. He sees Cristiano fly and enjoys every moment. Gareth knows he will not want to miss his own club play on the final day of the season, but on the matchday before that, in the beginning of May, he chooses the United home game against West Ham over the Spurs visit to Reading and is happy for his choice.

Cris opens the game scoring a goal measly three minutes into the game and what, does he kick the second one in with his knee? Yes and it’s a goal, his thirtieth in the competition.

Amazing. There’s no limit to what he is this season, Gareth thinks.

A yellow card and a substitution later Cristiano leaves Old Trafford a little moody. Gareth can only see the sunny side of the match: the beautiful moves, the decisive goals. He wants to kiss his perfect boyfriend silly, and on the white designer sofa of Cristiano’s Cheshire mansion his wish is fulfilled.

And, later on, a couple more in Cristiano’s bed, and yet another one standing in shower.

They sleep in separate rooms. Gareth leaves for London early in the next morning even though Cristiano’s next game is almost a week ahead. Because, he knows, there are other important things in life besides having sex and playing football: sleep (minimum eight-hour nights and one-to-two hour naps, please), massage, weights, stretching, aerobics, cardio and sticking to your diet of regular, balanced meals.

Cristiano is grateful to Gareth for understanding that.

 

They win. They win so big.

Cristiano’s relieved, ecstatic smile when he lifts the Premier League trophy; surrendering, for a moment, to the sheer delight of a joint accomplishment, the laughter of happiness for being alive. Funny celebration hats, spraying champagne all over, biting the medals, shouting. Hugging the trophy with one arm, his mother with the other.

Another floating header against Chelsea in Moscow night, missing a penalty shot, lifting the Champions League trophy nevertheless. Collapsing on the wet grass, rolling over, tears of happiness. Russian rain soaking gold foil confetti and streamers. Running on the pitch holding the trophy with Wes Brown, eyes squinted, laughing and screaming pure exhilaration into the bright lights, dark clouds, black sky. The extra energy comes from somewhere, they leap and gallop, the silverware is large, thick shiny metal, but weighs nothing in their euphoric hands.

 

It’s not much more than a week until Cristiano has to leave for Switzerland; Portugal plays in the Euros. During the week before it there are club events to celebrate the latest trophy, present it to the local fans.

To Gareth’s relief, not for every day or night of that week. They have to take time together. Their brains tell it, their bodies scream it. June is going to be a long time to be apart after the busy April and May.

For hours, they just lie down, limbs entangled, Gareth’s face in the crook of Cristiano’s neck, Cristiano’s nose nuzzling Gareth’s hair; they snuggle to each other’s warmth and scent, squeeze each other in a tighter embrace one minute, ease it the next, like slowly rolling waves. They kiss, forever, soft and slow and languid until it turns to frantic, smothering, almost teary and desperate, nails digging in scalps and backs and jeans-clad buttocks, thighs nestling between thighs, scouring for smoking hot friction.

“I will miss you so much”, Gareth whispers. “But you can’t think about it. You play your asses off, everybody’s asses off. When we’re not there, I hope you win the whole damn thing.”

 

Cristiano takes Gareth shopping; he buys him a pair of black leather biker boots with buckles and studs and black tight leather trousers. He dresses Gareth in the pants in his loft like Gareth couldn’t do it himself, draws them over his long legs, makes sure they hug his hips nice and snug, fusses with the waistband until Gareth giggles, half because of Cristiano’s enthusiasm, half because it tickles.

Gareth complies in Cristiano’s willingness to dress him up. Cristiano borrows him his sheer black sleeveless shirt, the one Gareth has worn once before, and applies the black punk rocker eye make-up he loves on Gareth for some peculiar reason.

“Oh my hot little rebel”, Cristiano murmurs low, pulling Gareth close with a possessive grip over his leather-clad ass and Gareth doesn’t object. He lets their teeth clash in a sloppy, face-sucking kiss, devours Cristiano’s lips, licks and bites their perfect full curves like he wanted to memorize them with his tongue.

They barely make it out of the apartment but they’re not in a hurry anywhere. It’s late and dark when they walk the blocks towards the Rochdale Canal, side by side, not touching because it’s out in the public. Inside the club it’s different, Cristiano has his arm around Gareth’s back, locking Gareth’s both arms possessively to his sides, fingers on Gareth’s upper arm, stroking it with fingertips.

“You’ve been doing some serious upper body workout”, Cristiano whispers in Gareth’s ear and Gareth glances at him sideways, eyes so bright and blue and beautiful in the low nightclub lighting.

Gareth wouldn’t think that a couple of months have really made any difference, but if Cristiano thinks so, he’ll take it and be flattered. He loves basking in Cristiano’s attention and admiration, it’s new and it’s funny. He’s used to Cristiano being the hottest guy in the room, well, the hottest human being in any room, but when he gets a glimpse of them together in a mirror on the wall behind the bar, he thinks he is, actually, not that bad himself, not tonight at least.

Being in love makes him look like a star.

Cris makes him look like a star.

Gareth makes sure his hips brush Cristiano’s when they walk, and when they stop he slides his narrow, strong fingers confidently through the belt loops of Cristiano’s jeans to pull him close. He can feel the multiple folds of thick denim fabric of Cristiano’s fly through the leather and it feels wild.

Gareth feels like he’s changing to a different person, like he has put on a superhero disguise that makes him an unabashed sex monster, assertively using all he has to seduce his perfect boyfriend out of here and inside – well, anywhere he wants.

 _Ohh._ That’s too hot to even think about.

Maybe he is _exuding_ (where does Chris Gunter find his words, even?) those fuck-me-vibes after all. Cristiano smiles at him, a dangerous smile, eyes darkened. He lifts his hand up near Gareth’s face, points at him with his finger, like scolding, trying to make a silent point, crooks the finger halfway back to the fist and brushes Gareth’s cheek and lip with the knuckle side.

Gareth snatches the crooked finger between his teeth, holds it there, licks it with the tip of his tongue, fluttering like hummingbird wings.

“Hot little fucker”, Cristiano whispers close to his face.

Gareth grins widely and lets the finger drop. “Wanna leave?” he asks simply.

 

They’re back at the loft not much later than they left. Gareth can’t help giggling at the silliness of it, and Cristiano pins him to the wall of the private lift and kisses his laughing mouth silent, body tight and heavy on Gareth’s, hand rubbing hard over his crotch. If the ride up took any longer, he’d go on opening his fly but he saves it for home.

As soon as they get in, Cristiano pushes Gareth to the wall. He hastily opens his leather pants and kneeling down in front of him yanks them down just enough to get his cock pop out and his mouth on it; he has had no idea how much want and longing for the boy he has had restored, charged, in his body for all those weeks he has been concentrated on the sole mission of winning, and he wants to take it all back right now.

Cristiano tastes and sucks and feels, Gareth stands on shaky legs, feet still inside the heavy leather boots, gasping for breath, palms flat against the cool wall behind him, edges of the red bricks scraping his back through the thin mesh fabric of his shirt when he leans back for balance.

Cris stands up, keeping close, body on Gareth’s body, hand stroking his cock, the other hand clutching his hair, mouth open on his cheek, on his neck, finding his mouth. “Babe”, he pants between kisses, “My love.” Gareth opens his eyes, looks deep, kisses Cristiano’s lips. “I love you so much”, he says, “so much.”

Cris props his arms around Gareth’s back, his hands under his ass, squats lightly to lift him up. Gareth wraps his arms around Cristiano’s ox strong neck, his legs around his waist, kicking and shaking the boots off his feet doing it, and loves every second of being carried to the bed.

Cristiano peels the soft tight leather off Gareth’s legs, kissing every new inch of bare skin. Gareth takes off his shirt and tosses it on the floor and that’s it, it’s all he’s been wearing. Cris squirms out of his own clothes and kisses his long way back up the legs, guiding Gareth to turn face down, kisses his butt, his back, the back of his neck; grinds his hard cock between his thighs, to his buttocks, to the crack between them, blanketing Gareth with his weight.

He props himself up on his hands and knees, Gareth turns to his back between them, underneath him, face so open to him, trusting and loving. The magic of him, so able to let all his guards down and still stay composed, confident, his own person. How he lifts his hand to cup Cristiano’s cheek, slides it down, strokes his cock, keeps looking him in the eye like he never wanted to take his blue eyes off him.

Cris is glad to find the lube without leaving his position. He takes his time, easy, gently; rubs Gareth with warm, slick hands, fingers around him, inside him, sucks the skin of his neck, collarbones, chest, licks his nipples and goes back for his mouth. He feels the boy’s thighs start to tremble with anticipation and pure need for release, he flutters to his probing fingers, his sighs deepen to pleading moans, his grab of Cristiano’s cock turns demanding, tightens; he pulls Cristiano down, reddened and panting.

Now. Cristiano secures Gareth’s legs up along his sides, slides into his heated tightness, deep, all the way, feels Gareth all around him, close, close enough for Gareth’s cock to be rubbing to his skin but he wants to give him more, so he strokes it with one slippery hand until he feels it pulsating, bursting between them, on his hand, on Gareth under him, sweet warm wet mess. He goes on thrusting in him, pushing deep, sinking and losing himself; he comes crying out loud, deep in, Gareth’s shins squeezing his hips from both sides, until his arms give in and he collapses boneless down on Gareth’s panting body underneath him.

They break in mindless, euphoric bursts of laughter, kissing happy tears off each other’s faces, Gareth’s arms and legs wrapping Cris in tight embrace, clinging to him like an overgrown baby koala.

“I’ll miss you”, Gareth whispers so silently he doesn’t think Cristiano will hear; he is not sure if he wants him to hear, he doesn’t want to load any unhappy thoughts on Cristiano, nothing to compromise his game.

“I’ll miss you more”, Cristiano answers.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to write some drama but saved it for later. Maybe it's because I've been so teared up because of Borussia Dortmund and Marc Bartra.
> 
> A question! Do you prefer longer chapters, or are short ones like this and the previous one okay?
> 
> Thanks for reading lovelies <3


	11. Side roads to summer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Would you complain if I took out another fellow?_  
> 
> (Alan Jay Lerner, Frederick Loewe – A Hymn to Him / My Fair Lady)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> I want to stress more than ever that folks, remember, this is fiction.
> 
> Sami Hyypiä is a national treasure, a gentle giant, an angel and a saint and would never ever try anything with a boy half his age.

 

 

Portugal starts the tournament with a win over Turkey. Gareth watches it in Cardiff with some old mates; it’s fun to be with people he’s known for years, to slump comfortably back to his old Welsh boy self.

He’d like to see the next match with them, too, but he has a club doctor’s appointment in London and Aaron and Chris ask him out to see the game after it.

“You’ll be so anxious you’ll gnaw your fingers to snubs if you watch it home alone”, Aaron says, “You’ll be more relaxed surrounded by drunk sports fans.”

“Sounds like my kind of fun”, Gareth says, rolling his eyes. “But if you want me there so much, I’ll come.”

 

Portugal’s game against Czech Republic is a late afternoon match but the pub is still almost full. The large flat TV screens blare the beautiful familiar football colours, technicolor green grass, white and red game kits.

Gareth is exhilarated by Cristiano’s goal on the second half and ecstatic that Portugal beats one of the teams that have been responsible of dropping Wales out of the tournament; he can’t really say his boyfriend is taking a revenge on his behalf but a tiny bit of his heart feels so and he cherishes the gratifying sense of getting even.

Gareth decides to send him naughty texts under the table whenever they occur in his mind. He hopes Cris will have fun reading them after the game.

_whoa yer goal. Getting half hard just watching._

And that’s just the first one.

He loves the giant screen that gives his eyes generous close-ups of his gorgeous Portuguese lover. He can sense the feel of his body, how Cristiano’s chest would heave under his hand when he breathes so hard, what his salty sweat tastes like when Gareth kisses his temple or his neck.

Aaron and Chris have to leave before final whistle and miss the Quaresma goal Cristiano sets up with a beautiful run and pass. Gareth watches it alone, sticks around for the highlights, the post-game interviews.

The phone shows no messages. He thinks about his London flat. If he leaves now, there will still be time until the night game starts. He dreads the empty lonely rooms, every spot carrying memories of Cris. What if Cris is too preoccupied to contact him the whole night?

Cristiano smiles on the television screen. Gareth smiles back and heads for the bar.

 

The bartender fusses at the other end of the bar, then in the middle, and Gareth starts to think he should take the lack of service as a sign to leave after all.

A tall blond man steps next to him and of course, at that moment the bartender pops his head up and beelines straight to the newcomer, face lit in a warm customer service guy smile.

“What would you like, sir?”

The other guy is almost placing his order but turns to Gareth’s direction, like realizing suddenly there has been someone all along.

“I think he was here before me”, the man says, “I’m very sorry”, he continues straight to Gareth, “what would you like to drink?”

“Just an orange juice, please”, Gareth says, altering his gaze between the bartender and the other customer who orders a beer for himself.

The bartender leaves and the tall man turns properly to Gareth. Gareth has recognized the face and frame immediately. He is struggling to find the words to start a conversation but he doesn’t have to.

“You’re Gareth Bale, aren’t you?” the tall guy says and extends his hand to a greeting. “Sami Hyypiä.”

“I know”, Gareth grins. “Nice to meet you.”

He feels flattered that the iconic Liverpool full-back has recognized him with such certainty. The Finn has been playing there already when Gareth’s dad drove him to his first rehearsals and games in the youngest ranks of junior academy.

“Nice to meet you too”, Sami answers, tilts his head towards his shoulder and smiles. The angular cheeks wrinkle in deep laugh lines and dimples. “And it would have been nicer to meet some other way than this. I mean, I didn’t want to come across all blind and arrogant, sorry.”

Gareth waves his hand. “I’ve never heard anyone calling you blind or arrogant. Quite the opposite”, he says.

Sami smiles, again. “Now you’re just flattering an old man.”

Gareth scans his brain for an answer. He can’t say _you’re not old_ , that would sound dumb, or an attempt to a wrong kind of flattery. Or _no, I’m not_ , it would only emphasize his praise in a possibly embarrassing way.

He notices the older man looking at him amused, watching his face like he was reading the array of jumbled thoughts bouncing inside his head. He feels exposed.

The drinks arrive as a welcome distraction. Gareth takes a sip of his juice, happy to notice it cold from the ice cubes filling half of the glass. He needs to cool down the flush he is afraid has risen over his cheeks.

Gareth shifts for comfort and more distraction, turns his back to the bar counter, leans back to his elbows, the glass by his arm. He’s safe to turn his gaze back to Sami’s face now; the man is taking a sip of his pint, scanning slowly around the bar over the rim of the glass. His other hand is on the brass railing on the edge of the bar, wrist down. Big hands, long dexterous fingers, a golden wedding band.

Gareth breaks the silence to be polite.

“What brings you to London?” he asks.

Sami sets his glass on the bar and turns his full attention back to Gareth.

“Waiting for a plane”, he says. “I was supposed to fly to Finland for summer. My wife and boys went ahead yesterday. I was supposed to meet them this evening, but the flight was first delayed and then cancelled. I was on Heathrow from the noon, can you believe it?”

“Oh no, That’s a drag”, Gareth symphatizes.

Sami sips the beer and nods. “I got a place on a horrible night flight. It’s three in the morning when we land. Helsinki airport is a graveyard at that time. Or an empty hospital.”

Gareth chuckles at the thought. “What about summer?” he asks, “What plans do you have?”

Sami shrugs. “Mostly just take it easy. We have a summer house, it’s just… heating up the sauna, swimming and fishing. Golf, maybe. And I promised to make a couple of visits as a guest coach to a junior football camp.”

“Sounds nice”, Gareth says, and he really means it. It sounds… wholesome, accessible, like a future he could be living towards himself: to make a solid career out of playing football for a big club and combine it with a family, a home, a real life. There’s something warm and comforting in it.

“And it’s not like my national team is having any big games right now”, Sami continues, nodding towards the side wall with the big TV screens that are blaring with Euro highlights.

“Believe me, I know the feeling”, Gareth says, returning the older player’s wry smile. He knows Finland played in Cristiano’s qualification group and was left out of the tournament just as miserably as Wales. “At least you were fourth in your group. That’s a notch better than us.”

“And look where it got us”, Sami says.

“Yeah”, Gareth agrees, “At the same place.”

Sami raises his glass. “Exactly. Here’s to it.”

Gareth clinks it with his. “To the outcasts.”

Sami laughs. “You’re being miserable now", he scoffs and makes a toasting gesture again. "To the rejects.”

A sense of cozy, shared warmth lingers in the air. Gareth feels safe but energetic and can’t say where it comes from. Is it just the easiness of the conversation?

“What about you”, Sami asks curiously, “What are you doing here all alone?”

It’s a surprisingly intrusive question but not in an uncomfortable way, Gareth thinks.

“My mates had tickets to a concert. They had to leave”, he says.

Sami looks at him for what seems like a long time, there’s a little mischievousness in his smile.

“Are you sure?” Sami asks and takes a sip of his beer, keeping an eye contact over the glass. “I think you deserted them because you have a hot date”, he teases and bows his head down, just a bit, to level with Gareth's eyes. “You can confess it to me. C’mon, I’m leaving the country tonight. Your secret is safe.”

Gareth can’t help a thoroughly amused giggle escaping his lips. “Jeez, this is the closest to a hot date I’m going to get tonight”, he says.

Shit. The smile and laughter in his voice die down as soon as he finishes his sentence. He certainly hopes it didn’t sound like he is implying that the situation _is_ close to a hot date when he actually means to emphasize it’s as _far_ from it as it gets.

“Okay”, Sami says, puts on a poker face that doesn’t reach his eyes, they’re green and they’re still smiling; he’s pulled back to his natural height and gazes downward on Gareth who feels trapped by his position. Leaning back against the bar was relaxed and nonchalant at first but now it feels yielding, suggestive.

“I mean”, Gareth starts, buying time. _Where does this sudden need to explain myself come from?_  he wonders.

“I mean, I have a boyfriend but he is abroad.” Gareth looks away for a minute, turns back to Sami, looks upward at him, studying his face for reaction.

He sees no change in the older man’s demeanor and is suddenly almost desperate for response, like a surprised look or a hasty expression of empathy would make his relationship with Cristiano more real.

Or then it’s something else, something that has not that much to do with Cristiano at all. It’s the sudden flashing picture in his head, a wordless question about how it would feel to kiss someone taller than himself, to have to stretch and arch his neck to reach up. Or the thought that a cute imperfection, like a gap between someone’s front teeth, can be curiously fetching.

“I miss him. A lot.” Gareth bites his lip, mainly because he’s nervous, maybe partly because he feels the need to show a drop of vulnerability right now.

“He is away.” He keeps his eyes locked in Sami’s. “And I’m lonely.”

The Liverpool man doesn’t evade his eyes. He looks in them for a long, silent moment. He shifts his position on the bar, leans forward to his elbows next to Gareth; their upper arms are aligned, not touching but not far apart.

Almost touching.

Gareth is sure he can feel the warmth radiating from the other man’s skin; it’s summer, June, they’re both wearing short sleeve T-shirts.

Sami’s gaze breaks away from Gareth along with his move, travels slowly back, traces along Gareth’s features.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Gareth”, Sami says softly, not sounding exactly very sorry. He looks away, again, takes another small sip of his pint, looking straight ahead. Then he turns back, looking calm, friendly and compassionate. “Just how lonely are you?”

The air in the bar is suddenly very heavy and thick, laborious to breathe in.

“What do you mean?” Gareth hears himself ask. He knows he shouldn’t. He should stop here. He doesn’t need to hear or say anything further.

He sees the Adam’s apple move on Sami’s throat. The man swallows; under his calm, collected face he may be just as nervous as Gareth.

“I mean”, Sami says and pauses, “I don’t have to take the night flight.” the gaze directed at Gareth is steady. “The airline also offered to pay for a hotel room and reschedule me on a morning flight. I can still call and take that option.”

It’s all turned so real and serious now. The air is too thick to breathe but too thin to swallow and it’s a bit too hot for comfort in the pub.

Gareth shifts and turns towards the bar, finding the glass with the remnants of the orange juice between his hands. The ice cubes have melted, it’s lukewarm and diluted with water but the glass is still cool to touch. He rolls it between his hands, looking down.

“It could be nicer, anyway”, Sami says calmly, attempting a light tone, “to watch the Switzerland-Turkey somewhere else than here.”

Gareth can’t form one coherent thought he could put to words so he has to go with the gut feeling. Even then, it’s difficult to say what he really wants, what he really does not want. His heart and mind race to all directions at once and stutter in a complete stoppage at the same time.

“I don’t know”, Gareth says finally and lifts his eyes back to the Finn. “I think you should keep the flight.”

 

Sami’s pocket beeps and he digs out a Nokia phone that seems to have a full keyboard under a large screen. The lean face lights up in a smile.

“I got a standby spot on the next flight”, he says. “It leaves in 45 minutes. I’ll be home before midnight.”

His smile catches on Gareth. “Take that as a sign”, Gareth says and grins. “Now hurry, you’d better get going.”

The tall Finn has already straightened to his full frame.

“I hope you get your boyfriend back home soon”, he says to Gareth.

Gareth chuckles at the thought: Hyypiä clearly doesn’t know that’s the absolute worst thing to wish for.

“He’d hate to hear you say that”, Gareth grins, and Sami might raise his eyebrows a bit, but his expressions are so subtle it’s hard to tell.

His smile is still warm and fond. He looks like he’s already taking a step to leave for the doors when he stops in his step, turns back and extends his hand. He ruffles Gareth’s hair and pulls him in for a quick peck on his cheek. It’s a clumsy mixture of a moderate, European midair greeting kiss and a quick, appreciative football celebration kiss; Gareth takes it as an expression of not only affection but also relief.

Both feelings are mutual, he thinks.

 

Cristiano still hasn’t answered Gareth’s texts. Gareth tries to call but gets no answer, then Cris calls him back but has to go before they get to exchange more than greetings. They settle for a quick good-night call before Cristiano needs to go to sleep.

“We could Skype between breakfast and morning training tomorrow”, Cris suggests.

 

Gareth really doesn’t think he has anything to tell but can’t help thinking if he should anyway. They shouldn’t have secrets, even if it’s something irrelevant, right?

He sees Cristiano on his laptop screen and hears his voice over the speakers. He notices that the cute accent is a bit more prominent now that he’s spent almost two weeks speaking mainly Portuguese and wonders, for a brief moment, if he has a thing for foreign men.

“Glad to see you smiling”, Cristiano says. “Are you having fun?”

“I guess”, Gareth says. “We were out yesterday to see your game, Aaron and Chris asked me.”

Cristiano’s eyes widen. “You sent those messages from a bar?”

Gareth chuckles. “Nobody saw it!”

“I hope nobody saw your semi-wood, you perv.”

“Cris!”

“You texted about it yourself, Gareth.”

“Sorry. I thought you’d like it.”

Cristiano smiles. “I liked it.”

Gareth feels a hot wave wash through, leaving him warm and longing. If Cristiano said something like that through a smile like that when they were in the same room, they would end up kissing.

“God, I miss you”, he says.

“I miss you too.”

Cris hums quietly and Gareth smiles at him. He loves the sound of it.

“Cris, guess who was at the bar? Sami Hyypiä.”

”The Liverpool guy?”

“Yeah. I talked with him.”

“What did you talk about? How was it?”

“It was…” Gareth can’t help a smile rising on his lips, “I don’t know. He was… or it was surprisingly flirty.”

“What do you mean?” there’s sudden steel in Cristiano’s voice that Gareth doesn’t notice.

“Never mind.”

Cristiano bites the inside of his cheek. “You need to tell me.”

Gareth fidgets in front of the computer and it is driving Cristiano crazy.

“I said I don’t know. Maybe it was because we talked more about… personal stuff, I guess, less about football.”

Gareth suddenly realizes that the conversation is going to a really shitty direction. He should have said nothing, because it was nothing, nothing happened and Cristiano will only draw his own conclusions about the fact that Gareth even bothered to mention it.

Now he sees how tight Cristiano’s usually relaxed jaw is clenched. “Gareth”, he says in his window on the computer screen, “please tell me from the beginning what you talked about.”

Gareth doesn’t know if he should decline, if he can decline now. He can’t; he has the right to his privacy even when he is in a relationship, but if he keeps to it now, he will only drive Cristiano anxious and it would be bad in the middle of an important tournament.

He tries to go through it smooth and fast. It’s easy to tell about the start of it, the cutting in line, recognizing each other, the flight situation, asking about the summer plans.

But the further Gareth goes on, the harder it is to get the words out. He’d rather not, he realizes, but he’s in too deep to fabricate a lie, or to hide the details he wouldn’t want to go into. He would suck in a police interrogation, he thinks in the middle of it all.

Cristiano listens surprisingly patiently and when Gareth is finished, he takes a deep breath. Inhales, exhales. Frowns. All those, for long slow seconds that seem like minutes, before he speaks.

“Okay, Gareth. Do you know what I hear there? You say ‘I’m gay, I’m lonely, my boyfriend is away and I need dick.’ How the fuck do you expect him to react?”

Gareth hangs his head, silent.

“Huh, Gareth?”

“C’mon, Cris. I didn’t expect him to be that kind of a guy. I mean, think about it, he’s a grown-up, he never does anything stupid, he was going to his wife and kids. Who would be safe to talk to if not someone like him? He’s, like, as straight as it gets.” Gareth is a bit afraid he’s getting too defensive now but what’s the other option?

“Gareth”, Cristiano says flatly, looking deadpan in the webcam, “Last summer you had a girlfriend.”

Gareth opens his mouth to answer but there is nothing to say. Except the obvious.

“I’m sorry, Cris. I’m sorry. I didn’t think.”

“No. You didn’t.”

“But nothing happened.”

 

That doesn’t reassure Cristiano too much. From what he’s heard, it’s not that obvious that nothing couldn’t have happened.

“He got a message about an earlier flight, right?” he says. “What if he wouldn’t have? What if he wouldn’t have told you about it? What if he had said that he’s taking the hotel room and invited you there to watch the late game? Would you have said no?”

“That’s a lot of what if’s, Cris. I said no before the message came in. Nothing happened, nothing.” Gareth stresses the last words, gaining back a bit of confidence. “Please Cris. Let’s not drag this further. I don’t want to fight. You know I love you, right? Please trust me.”

It’s hard, Cristiano thinks but can’t exactly tell why it’s hard. Gareth has been nothing but sweet and honest so far but what the fuck, why does he do something like this, tells it and then starts diminishing it, saying it was nothing when it obviously was something worth mentioning, something worth smiling and squirming about?

Trust. _Trust_.

Cristiano has, in most occasions, had a hard time trusting anybody but himself. When something really matters, he takes it in his own hands.

Life’s what you make it, Cristiano Ronaldo.

“I don’t know, Gareth”, he says and pauses.

He has thought about it and made his decision.

“I think you should come over here. I’ll arrange a plane for you. I’ll call you about it.”

Trust? Maybe later. Until then, control is a safer option, the only guarantee for his peace of mind.

Not that he thinks about it in those words. He doesn’t really think about it in words at all. He feels, and what he feels is that he loves and misses Gareth and doesn’t feel safe until he knows exactly where he is.

Gareth needs to be here.

 

 


	12. “That little Welsh whore!”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>    
>  _Guard, run and bring in the bloke._
> 
> (Alan Jay Lerner, Frederick Loewe – Just You Wait / My Fair Lady)
> 
>  

  

**June 12 th, 2008  
Neuchâtel, Switzerland**

Pepe hears a loud crack and knocks warily on the door. Cristiano opens it, panting, free hand in a fist. A wooden chair lies down in front of the desk, one foot in a slanted angle.

You can’t slam a laptop lid shut hard enough. Cristiano had to take the chair he had sat on and throw it on the floor. He didn’t mean to use that much force, but in the end, the crack of wood feels satisfying.

_How does that sound, you fucking Viking? Want it to be one of your bones? When your wife hears it might be._

“Did you fall off?” Pepe gestures towards the chair with faked innocence.

Cristiano steps out of the way and lets his older teammate in.

Their team star’s face tells Pepe something is very wrong. He doesn’t really know Cristiano Ronaldo that well personally but he wants to help if he can. As a new double citizen, the Brazilian-born defender has only been with his adopted national team for a few games. An injury has kept him out of a lot of the qualifications but he knows there’s more to playing successfully than what happens on the pitch. If there are problems outside it, they must be addressed.

“Is it about Scolari leaving?” Pepe asks.

“No. It’s not that. And it’s not the media harassing me about Madrid, either”, Cristiano says; hopefully quick answers will make the guy leave soon and let him wallow in his own misery.

“What happened, Cristiano? Do you want to talk about it?” Pepe asks sincerely.

Cristiano isn’t sure if he wants to, but he feels he needs to. He’s not that familiar with Pepe, either, but right now it’s only for the better. Sometimes it’s easier to speak to someone who’s not too close, when no past baggage strains the relationship, when there are no presuppositions.

He decides to trust the Real Madrid man.

 

Pepe sits on an armchair, keeps his eyes on Cristiano who paces around the room and talks. Cristiano goes through it all as much to make sense of it to himself as to paint the picture of the situation to the listener. The whole history: how they met, how they got closer. How they have been together for months now, with ups and downs, distance and games and recovery work. How he’s trusted them to make it despite their separate careers but now this, all of a sudden.

He repeats the discussion Gareth told him in as much detail as he can remember.

Pepe listens attentively.

“I mean, what the fuck? At a time like this, he decides to start whoring around? Picking up guys at bars?” Cristiano rants to the walls of his room, hands wide, despair on his face.

“But he didn’t, did he?” Pepe asks softly. “And he told you all about it. He realized he screwed up and apologized. I could say to you that if he acts like this so early in your relationship you should just leave because it can only get worse but it doesn’t really seem that simple. Of course you’re hurt, that was selfish and stupid of Gareth but honestly, you should try and get over it. Concentrate on the games.”

Cristiano slows his pacing back and forth to shifting his weight from one foot to another, rolling his shoulders and stretching his neck, channeling his anger and frustration to physical action.

“Did I really ask you for advice?” he shoots at Pepe.

His teammate shrugs his shoulders. “Whatever”, he says, pushing himself up from the chair. “Of course I can be wrong, but are you sure it’s a good idea to bring him in the middle of all this?”

It’s Cristiano’s turn to shrug his shoulders. “I don’t know”, he admits. “But it’s all I can do.”

“Have you thought it through? I mean, you haven’t actually been public about… any of this. I didn’t know. I would have thought there would be more gossip around about the two of you.”

That surprises Cristiano a bit; he would have thought that the unfortunate News of the World story had spread more widely.

He realizes he hasn’t thought the publicity side of it at all. Not that he has had too much time for rational thinking. All he has had in his mind is getting his boy out of the temptations of London, to the place where he belongs, by his side.

He will deal with the details later.

“How are you doing now?” Pepe asks warily. “I mean, we should soon be heading to the training ground. Do you want me to cover for you, say you feel uneasy and need to rest until lunch?”

Cristiano stops completely, his jaw drops and eyes widen. “Would I miss practice?” he asks, face aghast, “No way in hell!”

 

After lunch Cristiano sacrifices a part of his siesta for locating private aircraft and a rental car that could bring Gareth to him as soon as possible, preferably at a time slot where he can personally go to meet him at the airport.

Cristiano feels worse than he would like to admit. Gareth has caught him off guard, hit him in insecurities he didn’t know he had.

He feels fooled by his own brain, for starters. It hasn’t, simple and plain, even occurred to him that Gareth might be attracted to other men. It’s been a blind spot to him; he has been self-sufficient and pompous enough to think that he’s the only exception in Gareth’s world, the only man special enough to change the feelings of the shit-sweet boy who was heading for a solid straight future with his definitely female high school girlfriend.

It’s maybe even worse to see that Gareth can obviously be attracted to somebody so totally different from him. To some quiet northern Viking with a rugged worker’s face and what, a six-foot-five frame, almost twice Gareth’s age… Jesus, with their four-and-a-half years age difference Cris has sometimes felt guilty of luring an innocent youngster to things he shouldn’t but apparently he’s far from the worst.

And Gareth – how can he act that way? Is it something he should have seen coming all along? _If he did it with you, he’ll do it do you_ , echoes an annoying Dr. Phil -voice in his head, dripping with fake empathy.

Or is it something new? Is Gareth changing, growing up to a different kind of guy from the one he met last August?

Gareth can be so nervous, standoffish and demure; prone to look down when talking, his smiles boyishly shy. But when things get physical, he is a different person. Gareth is in bed like he is on the pitch: confident in his body, passionate, natural, fearless.

Uninhibited and insatiable. Still so cute, fragile, loving and needy.

Damn. Cristiano feels a twitch in his pants and hates it. He was supposed to be cool and analytic, not let his thoughts wander.

Where was he? Thinking about Gareth, wondering if his two sides are somehow merging, trying to figure out how to deal with it.

What a force of nature he can be when his inner raw energy builds up enough to shine through and stretch the seams of his sweet, quiet, composed façade.

How dare the boy show it off to anybody else but him?

Is Pepe right, should Cris just get over what happened?

Cristiano needs a second opinion. He knows who has seen them together for longer than anybody else.

 

Wayne Rooney’s sympathetic groan over the phone soothes his fuming mind. “Ouch man, I’m sorry!” the Englishman says. “Do you know who the guy was?”

Cristiano tells him.

“A _Red_? That little Welsh whore!”

Cristiano has to grin in spite of himself. You can always count on Rooney.

“Yeah. It stings”, Cristiano sighs.

He hears Wayne blow air out and breathe in, like giving oxygen to his brain that’s ticking to wrap itself around the new information.

“But you’re the one who turned him gay”, Wayne blurts finally.

“What the fuck does that have to do with anything, man?” Cristiano retorts.

“Um, dunno. I thought that maybe it’s infectious. I mean, I can’t really see Hyypiä being that kind of a man. Just saying.”

Cristiano doesn’t know if he should laugh, cry or plain out scream at the stupidity. He chooses to do all of the three. “You’re a fucking homophobic moron, Rooney! Why do I even hang out with you?” he yells through teary guffaws of laughter.

“They say you owe half of your awards to my sweet passes, Ronnie. For starters.”

“Sod off, Roo. You need to learn the difference between the truth and the shit of English press.”

“A quarter, at least.”

“I give you ten percent.”

“And who else would put up with you? Apart from that two-timing twat you’re shagging.”

Cristiano sighs. “I’m not sure I like you talking about him like that.”

Wayne coos on the phone. “So soft, Ronnie. I thought you’d be punishing him.”

“We’ll see about it. He’s flying over here tomorrow.”

“Gaz already booked a flight to come and crawl on his knees back to you? Gee, the boy is sorry.”

“I did it. I’ll tell him soon.”

“Wow.” Wayne is silent for a moment. “What are your plans when he’s there? I mean, you have Euros to play.”

Cristiano shrugs, not that Wayne can see it over the phone. “He can watch my games in our box with my mother and Hugo. I got him a hotel room. I dunno, I’ll improvise.”

Wayne clears his throat. “You don’t improvise, Ronnie.”

There’s a silence. Wayne breaks it in a wary, tentative voice. “Ronnie? I’m just curious… what actually happened? You only told me Gareth’s cheating you. What did they do?”

Cristiano repeats the same detailed version of the conversation he told Pepe in the morning.

Wayne sighs.

“Aren’t you over-reacting a bit, Ronnie? I mean, from what you’re telling me it sounds like he talked to a guy at a bar and you’re locking him up. If Coleen had acted like you I would've been running the other way faster than you blink.”

“I blink pretty fast”, Cristiano mutters.

“Yeah. That’s the point. But think about it. Good luck.”

“Thanks, Wayne. Would be nice to play against you here.”

“I didn’t mean the tournament, but good luck with that, too. Bye.”

 

Cristiano stares at his dead phone a long time after the conversation.

Like Wayne Rooney knows shit about love.

 

_I’m not into gossip, I’m not nosy. I only want to help. Building a solid defense begins from the roots._

Pepe needs to psych himself up in order to talk to Nani about their teammate who happens to be Nani’s double teammate, club and country.

And who might, if the ever-strengthening rumours are to be believed, be Pepe’s double teammate in the future. Double the reason to know as much as possible about the situation that’s bugging Cristiano Ronaldo.

They talk about yesterday’s game, how it feels to train on a pitch in front of thousands of cheering fans; to Nani it’s new, to Pepe it’s not.

Finally Pepe feels safe to bring up the subject he really wants to hear about.

“Ronaldo told me he has dated a guy for months. I didn’t know it. Have you met him?”

Nani seems actually relieved that he’s asked about it. He looks pensively out in front of himself, like searching for words.

“Gareth. I’ve met him. But I don’t know if I’ve _really_ met him. It’s one of those things… Do you know how it is, when everybody knows something but nobody talks about it?” The young player looks sidelong at Pepe from under his curly locks.

“I can see what you mean. It’s like that, then?”

Nani nods several times, looking down on the ground.

“It took me time to figure it out. I mean, Cris is… _Ronaldo_. I’ve seen him with girls, and I mean _seen_ seen, there’s been a couple of parties where he doesn’t give a shit about who walks in on him… you know.” Nani gives him a lopsided, uneasy sneer.

“Yeah, I get it. Sorry for that, dude”, Pepe says emphatically. Nani is practically a teenager, and if he has really been looking up to Cristiano Ronaldo – is there a young Portuguese footballer who hasn’t – it can be traumatizing to have the guy you admire flaunt his sex life in front of your eyes.

“Gareth has been sometimes at Cristiano’s place, when I’ve been hanging out there”, Nani continues. “There’s almost always a lot of people there, me and Anderson practically lived there in the start of the season until we got our own flats. There’s Cristiano’s family, his Portuguese friends. They come from so far that they’re always over for longer times.”

Pepe can picture it. He has seen Cristiano presenting his big house and garden on TV; with typical, family-oriented Portuguese hospitality it is likely to be an open house for his loved ones to come and go as they please. How does a British boy fit into that?

“How about Gareth?” he asks.

“When I’ve been there, he just hangs out like the rest of them, or us, but at the same time… not like everybody else. Obviously he _is_ different, he doesn’t speak Portuguese and nobody changes to English with him, except Cristiano of course. I try to but my English is still crap. Everybody knows he’s special, we all see that they sleep in Cristiano’s room, sometimes you see them hold hands or snuggle a bit to each other if we watch TV but Cristiano has, like, never presented him to any of us in a way that ‘hey, meet my boyfriend, we’re together’, you know. Just ‘here’s Gareth, he plays for Tottenham’ or ‘this is Gareth, he’s from Wales’ to new people. He’s not been to our dressing room either, but I know he sometimes watches games.”

The situation Nani describes makes Pepe feel a bit sorry for Gareth. “Do you think he feels left out?” he asks.

Nani shrugs. “I don’t know if he cares. He’s quite quiet in company, and the way he looks at Cristiano… you can see he worships the ground he walks on.”

Pepe absorbs the information, organizes it in his brain.

 _Poor boy_ , he thinks.

On the other hand, he might be wrong; he doesn’t know how happy or unhappy Gareth is. But all he has heard points at one direction: The boy who hurt his teammate is most probably very sorry and deeply confused.

 

**June 13 th, 2008  
Neuchâtel, Switzerland**

Neuchâtel is a picturesque town set in stunning scenery but Cristiano is not looking over the glistening lake, nor planning a hiking trip to the Jura Mountains. He stands arms folded on his chest, leaning to a rented Mercedes, and glares at the door of the private jet, waiting for it to open any moment.

Finally the stairs glide out and Gareth steps down, looking sheepish, eyes covered from the blasting sun and Cristiano’s anger with dark glasses.

“Glad you could make it”, Cristiano says in a sarcastic, saccharine tone.

“Glad you wanted to have me”, Gareth retorts blandly.

Cristiano holds the passenger side door open, extending his hand for Gareth’s weekender bag to take it smoothly off his shoulder as Gareth slumps down on the low-set seat. Cristiano’s demeanor is held-back, overtly courteous.

“I got you a room in the same hotel my mother stays at. Our team base is outside the town”, he says, keeping his hands on the steering wheel, eyes on the road.

“Thanks.” Gareth’s mouth should feel dry but it doesn’t. He gives Cristiano a sidelong glance and an image of kissing him, softly, endlessly, fills his head. “I’ve missed you.”

“I know. I heard you tell it all around town.”

That’s not fair, Gareth thinks, but says nothing.

“I’m sorry, Cristiano. I fucked up. I have no excuse. I was a total idiot.”

Cristiano is tempted to lift one hand off the steering wheel and put it on Gareth’s hanging head, feel his hair between his fingers. He squeezes the wheel tight to fight the urge.

He can’t say “you’re forgiven” this easily.

But he feels so _so_ relieved to have Gareth in this constricted space with him, in the leather nest inside the metal frame.

“I know”, he says and keeps driving.

 

The small hotel he got for his family and now Gareth sits in the middle of a fenced, gated garden and has an underground garage accessible from the back, no risk of accidentally running into the herds of sports reporters flocking around for hot Cristiano Ronaldo quotes.

Cristiano has already checked Gareth in on his way to the small airport and hands him the keys only when they are already in his room.

“Thanks for this”, Gareth says quietly, looking for a spot for his bag and the sunglasses he’s propped up on his forehead.

Cristiano takes both, puts the glasses on a small side table and the bag simply on the floor. He turns to Gareth, looks into his eyes, his gaze shifting left and right.

“Why, Gareth?” is all he can ask.

Gareth drops his gaze down but lifts it back to Cristiano’s eyes. “I was stupid. That’s all.”

Cristiano lets out a deep, disappointed sigh. “That doesn’t explain anything. You have to give me more.”

Gareth’s pale blue eyes start to glisten, tears are gathering up in them. “I… I still need to figure it out. I’m so sorry, Cristiano”, he says pleadingly.

Cristiano throws his arms up impatiently. “I don’t have much time, Gareth! We’re have a game coming in two days.”

Gareth gathers as much courage as he can and steps closer to Cristiano, touches his shoulder with tentative fingers, fingertips trembling with caution.

“Cris”, he says quietly, “It won’t happen again.”

When Cristiano doesn’t move away from his touch, he dares to brush his shoulder lightly, then lift his fingers to graze Cristiano’s jawline with the knuckle side of his fingers.

It’s too much. Cristiano glares at him warningly and wraps his hand around the wrist of the touching hand. He clutches Gareth’s other wrist with his other hand, locks them together in front of Gareth’s chest and backs him to the nearest wall in a few furious strides.

“You’re damn right”, he says, shooting a fiery but icy glare in Gareth’s eyes, “It won’t.”

Gareth’s hands that Cristiano is gripping between them are his only shield. His eyes are bare, unveiled windows to the core of his scared soul. The look in them has none of the controlled confidence Cristiano is used to seeing in them in these situations, not even a trace of smug seductiveness is left; only pure, helpless despair.

“Please forgive me, Cris”, he whispers before tears well up enough to start rolling down, “Please don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me now.”

Can the boy really think that Cristiano would fly him over here just to break up with him? That would make no sense, and he should tell it to him, comfort him, stroke his hair to ease his devastated mind, tell him not to worry, they’re here together to work it out.

Cristiano does none of it.

He lifts Gareth’s hands up above his head, presses him to the wall with his body and kisses him, trying to keep it as hard and emotionless as he can, as if he was giving him not a kiss but a punishment.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is definitely to be continued! I just felt that this chapter has so much content already with the outside POV's that I had to save sex for later.
> 
> Oops! Wayne Rooney actually got married on June 12th 2008. Most likely it would have been mentioned in a phone call between the mates, if he even would have answered. Well, in this story I'll reschedule the wedding because rewriting the dialogue in this chapter accordingly would just require too much brain-stretching for my poor head. I hope you don't mind!
> 
>  
> 
>  


	13. Trust issues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gareth's body fails him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm deeply sorry, this is a sad, short, horrible chapter, I know. I know it because it's really half of the originally planned chapter, the happier catharsis-producing half yet unwritten.
> 
> I cried when I planned this in my head, and teared up again writing it but I don't know, you may find it just pathetically hilarious and have a laugh so I can't give a warning of any kind.

 

Cristiano’s lips lack their usual passionate warmth but Gareth takes anything, anything that signals that he’s still worth touching, still worth something.

The familiar, athletic body keeps him pinned to the wall of the tastefully decorated French-Swiss hotel room but he’s blind to the surroundings, blind to anything but his raw emotion, feeding on Cristiano’s presence like it was the first and the last time he can feel him so close.

Shame and fear and guilt. Desire and love and despair and guilt, did he say guilt?

Take me, Cris, please, I’ve never been anyone’s but yours and never will, hear me, never.

Not that any of these thoughts escape his trembling lips. Gareth couldn’t get a coherent word out now. He kisses and sobs, kisses and sobs.

_Why, Gareth?_

There’s no good, rightful, legitimate answer to Cristiano’s question. Because there was no reasoning behind the way he acted in that pub in London. It was such a whim of the moment, an instinctive reaction that sprung from the mixed feelings and urges pooled in the pit of his stomach through the day, through days and weeks.

It was all of it and none of it: The way watching Cristiano play both turned him on and made him miss him so bad. The way his _body_ misses Cristiano all the time. The way his eyes unwillingly spot cute guys everywhere, like he has no control over it. The unexpected attention, the unexpected bond.

It makes no sense; it was like he was trying to cure a ghost pain on a missing limb that was Cristiano’s absence by something that could in no way mend it.

And besides it, something else. Like he had belatedly got a hung of this art of luring and catching the interest of somebody. He is in a situation where he has no use for the dating game skills; he is in a relationship that is so way over his league he could never have dreamed of anything like it, but suddenly something makes him try those moves anyway.

He has just never done it, never needed to. He had known Emma for years, gone to the same school, hung around in same loose circles of local boys and girls before they found themselves together more and more and finally some of his or her friends basically forced him to ask her out. And Cristiano – he just came into his life and swept him off his feet.

Gareth’s knuckles brush hard to the wall in Cristiano’s grip of his wrists. He is uncomfortable in his skin in a way he almost never is, numb but hyper-sensitive, clammy but hot. It’s like a fever but it’s not it, it’s the crying and fatigue and worry and wanting Cristiano but being afraid of wanting him, afraid of never being good enough for him anymore.

Cristiano’s knee digs between his thighs, grinds and corkscrews them apart. Gareth goes for a pleased moan around his tongue but it comes out as a snotty whimper.

 

They are in bed soon because Cristiano is in a hurry. Gareth feels clumsy peeling off his jeans like never before, never with Cris; it’s usually fun and frantic or cozy and warm between them.

“I… I brought lube”, Gareth tells to Cris who is halfway on top of him, weight heavy on the knee between his thighs, another outside, grinding his hard cock to Gareth’s hip.

“Good”, Cris says, cupping Gareth’s ass with his large hand, nibbling the side of his neck. ”Did you bring condoms?”

Gareth flushes bright red. He feels humiliated, and a failure.

“No”, he answers quietly, lies flat, opens his eyes wide to stare at the ceiling. “Did you ask it because you want to use one or do you just want to make me feel bad?”

The dark knots on the woodwork frame start to form faces when you look at them long enough.

“Never mind”, Cristiano replies blandly. “It was just a thought.”

He goes on nibbling and pecking Gareth’s neck, rises up his cheek for his lips, and Gareth has trouble answering his kiss. He tries, he really makes an effort, but his lips just die. He’s trying to be enthusiastic about it, move his hips in sync with Cristiano’s but it feels fake, he lies flat, again, feels Cristiano’s hand give his ass a little shake, as if to wake him up.

“I’ll- I’ll get it”, he mumbles for distraction and crawls out from underneath Cristiano, to fetch the lame and annoying tube he shouldn’t have even mentioned, why is everything such a downer right now when he should be ecstatic?

He’s on his back under Cristiano again, clings to his neck with his arms, lifts his ass from the bed to give his slippery fingers a quick and easy access but it’s awkward, why the hell is it like this? His legs start shaking and he tries to control it by tensing the muscles but everything tenses from the waist down, his ass clenches tight as a pinhole and he feels the frustration in Cristiano’s fingers, he can hear it in his breath. Hot tears of embarrassment and shame and humiliation burn his eyes again, he can’t let them out now, no fucking way can he start sobbing because it would kill him right here.

Cris tells him to relax, Gareth can hear he forces himself to sound soft and easy.

Gareth’s body is not fooled, it keeps on fighting this, it insists on failing him, betraying him.

Gareth relaxes all the muscles he can think of, he knows his body well, he can go through them in his mind. He tries to think the sexiest thoughts, everything from Cristiano’s face when he comes to feeling a dripping wet pussy through thin lace panties, Cristiano’s ass when he jumps to a header, groups of people banging brains off each other.

He tries faking it to make it.

Nothing helps.

“Just do it, please,” he whispers to Cris who inches in a fingertip, not more because he seems reluctant to force it, Gareth tries to push back at him but it’s as weak and lame as anything he attempts to achieve today, and he bites his lip to keep the curses down.

He wraps his hand around Cristiano’s cock, strokes it. “I want you, I really do,” he whispers, knowing his body proves otherwise. “Let me…” he starts, pushing Cris with his hand to turn over, hiking down on his body, he can’t say no to a blowjob now can he?

It’s not any better. Gareth has cried so much his nose starts running as soon as he closes his lips around Cristiano’s cock, he tries to hold it back but it just produces some ugly snorts out in the dull air-conditioned hotel room air, everything is unsexy as the opposite of fuck, depressing and Gareth wants to cry.

“No, hey, you don’t have to…” Cristiano starts softly, nudging Gareth’s head gently. Gareth tries to ignore it, which makes Cristiano raise his voice a notch, not to a shout but up from a whisper. “Stop,” he says, and Gareth feels even worse than when he started. He retreats down to the foot of the bed, curls his knees up to his chest, hugs them and looks to his side, down, anywhere away from Cris.

“I’m sorry,” he says and Christ, the tears, there they well again, he’s a fucking sorry wreck of a human being.

“No, I – I have to get going, anyway. You have the keys on the table, right, and they have maps of the town and some hiking trails if you’re going out… and order anything from the room service if you’re hungry,” Cristiano rambles, sounding lost. He goes to wash his hands, his dick has mercifully lost most of its interest in claiming his boyfriend back in the nearest minute or two.

When he comes back to pull on his clothes, Gareth lies in fetal position in the middle of the bed, back his way. He can see some of the bumps in his spine on his back, the surface of the ball he’s curled himself into, his shoulder blades look pale and bare like a baby bird’s wings.

“I’m coming back tonight, ‘kay? We’ll talk,” Cristiano says to Gareth’s back. “Keep your phone on.”

“I’m sorry,” Gareth mumbles, not turning Cristiano’s way. “I’m sorry for wasting your time. I’m sorry you spent all this money on me and got nothing back.”

White hot rage flares up inside Cristiano, the insult is like a slap right across his face, up so close to his eyes it brings tears of hurt in them.

Money has never been an issue between them. Gareth has more than enough, Cristiano even more, and they never count anything because Gareth couldn’t care less and Cristiano is happy about his refreshing attitude. The only reason Gareth would bring it up now is to imply Cristiano is treating him like property, like a sex worker who fails to deliver the services he’s been paid for up front.

Cristiano doesn’t say a word on his way out. All Gareth hears is the slam of the door.

 


	14. I'm the dark in need of light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s Gareth’s turn to get some relationship pep talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from “Firestone” by Kygo, thanks Rockets for pointing out that song for me!

The fatigue takes its toll and drowsiness drifts in behind Gareth’s tired, burning eyelids. It’s a pitch black dreamless sleep and when his phone cuts it off he feels like he hasn’t slept at all.

Is it Cristiano? Is it that late already?

No, it’s Chris Gunter.

“Hello Gareth, I thought I’d ask if you’d be going for a run together today? If you have no other plans, I mean”, says the quiet, friendly Welsh voice.

Gareth blinks his eyes rapidly to shed the sleepiness off them.

“Um, I’m not in London”, he starts.

“Oh, you’re back home? Sorry to bother.”

Gareth stretches his back and sits more upright. He doesn’t want Chris to end the conversation; it’s a welcome distraction to his misery.

“No, no, you’re not bothering! I’m not in Wales, I’m in Switzerland. This is Neuchâtel, Portugal have their team base here.”

“Oh.” Gareth can hear Chris digest the news. “I didn’t know you were going there”, Chris continues after a pause, sounding maybe a little suspicious, or offended that Gareth hasn’t shared his travel plans; they’ve been out not more than two days ago, after all.

Gareth hurries to explain. “This came up suddenly. I flew in today. Cristiano… arranged it yesterday.” His speech slows notably towards the end, he’s suddenly embarrassed by how it sounds. Like he’s some kind of a pet, or a sugar baby that his filthy rich boyfriend flies around at a whim. “We had a bit of a – fight, I guess, he wanted me here so we could sort it out.” Christ, what is he talking about? Gareth doesn’t owe any explanation to his friend and he definitely shouldn’t be making this anybody’s business but his and Cristiano’s.

“Was it bad? What was it about?” Chris sounds genuinely worried.

Gareth doesn’t know if he wants to tell. He hasn’t talked about the incident with anyone else than Cris. His parents are the only people he’s told about the trip before this – and even they only know that Gareth has traveled to the Euros because his boyfriend wanted him there to watch his games, which is completely adorable and tells only the sweetest things about their relationship.

He regrets for a moment he even answered the phone because he’s not a good liar.

“It’s nothing”, he tries nevertheless.

“Oh yes, people put each other on private planes over nothing all the time”, Chris retorts quickly. “Cut the crap, what was it?”

Gareth sighs. “I’m not sure I want to talk about it.”

“You don’t have to, obviously, but I’m listening. I won’t tell anyone.”

“I don’t know. How are you doing?” Gareth asks.

They end up talking about other things, Chris telling about the train he and Aaron took to the concert breaking down and having to run to get to the venue on time.

“I can’t believe we missed the end of the game for that! Did you get home all right?” Chris asks.

Gareth opens his mouth but his brain goes blank, he just can’t choke out _any_ kind of an answer.

How did he get home? Lightfooted and fluttery. Cheeks burning, heart racing, head buzzing on a high of being wanted, riding on a thrill of a moment of almost ending up in totally illicit ways; all those feelings had come rushing in his head when he was walking home, after the calm, soft and reasonable atmosphere that had marked the end of his conversation with Sami at the bar.

The feeling had lasted until the next day and made him spill it all to Cristiano, almost like wanting to share the excitement with him.

How could he have been such an idiot, not to know what a wrong move it was?

“Gareth? You still there?” Chris asks worriedly.

“Oh yeah, I am. Um. Yes, I got home.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“Sounds like that’s not all, Gareth.”

Damn Christopher’s psychic relationships radar.

“Well, I got home. But I guess there was a point when I could have ended up in, uh. Somewhere else.”

Why is his mouth running like that? It really isn’t Gunter’s business, but since Gareth already started Chris will not let him get away with stopping the story at this point. So Gareth might as well go on. “In a hotel. With Sami Hyypiä.”

“What. WHAT?” Chris yells on the phone.

“I’m not proud of it, Chris! But I left before anything happened. No, actually he left. But um, yeah. I turned it down but I still feel like shit and that’s what got me here.” Gareth talks fast and nervously, like it would get him out of the conversation he feels shouldn’t have engaged in, but at the same time feels strangely relieved to have started.

Maybe confessing your sins works like this.

“Okay, Gareth, slow down. Could you go back a bit? Because I don’t know if I quite follow you.”

Gareth tells. Chris cuts in with appropriate o _h_ ’s and _no shit_ ’s and _oh my god you didn’t_ ’s until Gareth has no more to say.

Chris has.

And his sweet Welsh voice is less quiet and friendly than in the beginning of his call.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” he starts. “Have you ever, for a moment, taken time to consider how lucky you are, Gareth?” Chris sighs loudly, Gareth hears a rattling noise when he huffs to the microphone; in his mind Gareth can see his friend running his hand through his stubborn straight short hair.

“I mean, first, you don’t even know you’re into men because you have a sweet pretty Welsh girl who is not after your money or some overnight fame. Then Cristiano Ronaldo practically kidnaps you the first time he lays his eyes on you, sits you in his Ferrari and drives you to his bed. You’d think he’d be an asshole who fucks you for fun a couple of times but no, he is actually a really nice fella and totally committed to you. And you even manage to stay friends with your ex-girlfriend! Do you have a brain and stop there? No, you have to try if you get Sami fucking Hyypiä to leave his wife and kids for you, what the FUCK is that? You know I’m not violent but right now I’d like to kick some sense in your head.”

Chris stops for breath. Gareth sighs and lets out a nervous chuckle.

“It wasn’t _that_ bad. I mean, I was stupid but…”

“Look”, Chris says and there’s a crackle of wind in the phone again when he blows air out from between his lips, “I trust you when you say nothing would have happened. But I can’t blame Ronnie for doubting it. Other people can’t get inside your head, nobody else knows if you have that deep down feeling that you wouldn’t mess around with anybody else. All that shows are your actions.”

Gareth looks down and pouts, he’d like to argue but Chris has a point. And besides that, his Welsh friend is not even nearly finished.

“You can try to do it like that. Become some dickhead fuckboy who runs around after as many easy shags as possible. I don’t know if you somehow have this twisted misconception that it would be an essential part of being gay or what but if you do, you’re dead wrong, Gareth.”

“I don’t…”

“Good. Because most guys would kill for what you have, a real relationship with somebody who cares for you and gets you and gets your world. Do you think that’s easy to find? I said it already, you don’t know how lucky you are.”

“I’m starting to get it”, Gareth mutters.

“Now, Bale, please, you sort this shit out. I hate to say this but you guys are obnoxiously perfect together. You take this opportunity, use the time you have over there and do your part. Your boyfriend has already got you there and he has other things to do besides work on your relationship issues alone, with you just moping around miserable. I will never forgive you if you fuck this up. We don’t have too many Welsh boys learning off Cristiano Ronaldo first hand.”

“Okay, point taken”, Gareth says sheepishly.

“Chin up, Gareth. You’re more than halfway because he wanted you there.”

Gareth smiles for the first time of the day. He hears the encouraging smile in Chris’ voice and it has always had a way of cheering him up.

“Thanks Chris”, he says. “I’d better get up.”

 

Cristiano doesn’t bother calling Gareth on his way to see him in his hotel. It’s almost like he’s too tired to do it. The day has been packed and after dinner and a short evening meeting with the team he has had to linger about in his room, waiting for the hallways to be empty, before he is able to sneak out unnoticed.

In the corridor outside Gareth’s room he takes the phone in his hand but pockets it; what good would it do to call him now? He extends his hand to knock but doesn’t do it, either.

Instead, he fishes a key out of his pocket. Of course he kept one.

The lock opens with a quiet click and the heavy wooden door makes no noise. He steps in the room.

It’s almost quiet. The TV is on, a modelling clay man in a green vest is talking to a yellow modelling clay dog in French on low volume.

Gareth lies across the foot of the bed half on his side, half on his stomach, facing the TV; one hand on the remote control, the other one in an awkward angle almost behind his back. His other knee is bent to the side, the other leg sprawled straight. The slightly slanted position emphasizes the curve of his ass, the back pockets of his jeans rounded over the buttocks, the back seam disappearing between his thighs. His pouty lips hang slightly parted, letting steady, peaceful breaths in and out between them. His eyes are closed and the edge of his phone is trapped under his cheek.

He looks so innocent. Cristiano is tempted to touch him but he doesn’t dare. After Gareth’s earlier reaction he feels he needs to be very gentle and patient.

Cristiano notices something else in the room: on a small table in front of the window there is something Cris is convinced wasn’t there at noon. He notices a vase of deep red roses, a bowl of big ripe strawberries and a gift box with a simple white card leaning to it.

He takes cautious, silent steps to the table and picks up the card. There’s a bit lopsided, slanted heart drawn in the corner and handwritten large words.

_Sorry._  
_Love,_  
 _G._

Cristiano raises his eyebrows and looks questioningly at Gareth, whose sleep remains undisturbed.

He takes the box and opens it. It’s a wristwatch; an expensive chronograph from a good maker, a kind Cristiano could buy himself but a model he doesn’t have. It’s showy but stylish, it has a sleek black leather band, metal – probably platinum – frame and black face with platinum hour markings.

Gareth shifts slightly on the bed, draws the bent knee to a tighter curl and slightly under him. It gives his hips a little roll. His lower back arches and pushes his pretty ass a bit higher, dear God, since when is someone’s accidental nap pure porn?

Cristiano doesn’t want to control himself any more.

He sits on the bed on Gareth’s side and runs his fingertips lightly through strands of his hair. Gareth’s eyelids flutter and he winces awake, propping himself up on one elbow. There’s a pink crease on his cheek from the edge of his phone.

“Oh, Cris. You’re here… sorry, I fell asleep”, he mumbles drowsily.

Cristiano looks at him warmly and keeps stroking his hair gently, reassuringly. “You got me a gift”, he says.

Gareth sits up, looks around the room, sees the opened box and blushes. “I wanted to give you something” he says quietly and shifts his eyes to Cristiano’s. “It wasn’t very creative”, Gareth says a bit apologetically.

“It’s perfect”, Cristiano assures. “Thank you.”

Gareth looks down like he is embarrassed out of his poor head but looks back up at Cris from the corner of his eye and a shy smile rises on his lips.

“You’re perfect”, he says.

Cristiano stands up and goes back to the table to look at the watch again. Gareth is pleased that he likes it; he got it from a shop that made him almost too nervous to enter but with its polished hardwood floors, antique rugs, locked glass display cabinets and mild-mannered salespersons in suits and ties it looked like a place where he could find something posh enough for Cristiano. Gareth doesn’t know shit about watches, he rarely wears them, but bought one that pleased his eye, looked like something Cris would use, was recommended by the personnel and cost an obnoxious amount of money.

He bought the flowers from a flower shop, and when he was unsure if there would be a vase in the hotel room (and felt too embarrassed to ask the concierge) he bought one, too.

“I thought they were Portugal red”, Gareth says to Cristiano, touching the petals of one large rose. The sweet scent whiffs in the room from the touch.

“Have you eaten anything?” Cristiano asks.

“Yeah, I’m good”, Gareth says and yawns. The truth is he quickly got a burger and a coke on his shopping trip and it’s a meal that wouldn’t normally satisfy him, but he hasn’t felt like eating the whole day. He loses his appetite generally almost as rarely as he loses sleep and during the last couple of days he’s done both; he tossed awake worried and guilty the night before getting here. Dozing off to a French dubbed cartoon channel was only the second short stretch of sleep he’s got in the last 24 hours.

“You should drink something. Sleeping in the daytime makes you dehydrated”, Cristiano says. Gareth throws an amused glance at him and takes a water bottle for a gulp.

“You’re too sweet to care for me like that, Cris”, he says when he finishes.

Cristiano pushes Gareth down to a big leather armchair next to the small table and straddles his lap. If he’s heavy, Gareth says nothing about it.

“I’m sorry about all the stupid shit I did”, Gareth says instead. “In London and when we got here.”

Cristiano cups his cheek and brushes his cheekbone with his thumb. “Don’t worry about the morning”, he says. “Sex isn’t something you owe me. Ever.” The look in his brown eyes is deep and serious. “But I do want to know what made you want to cheat on me.”

Gareth opens his mouth to protest but Cristiano lifts his finger over it to silence him. “I didn’t say you did it, but I get a feeling you wanted it, wanted something to happen. Why? How can I know it won’t happen again?”

“Well, I won’t make the same mistake twice, okay?” Gareth starts, looking pleadingly up at Cristiano. “But why… it’s harder”, he says, rolling his eyes to the side, rubbing his forehead under the messy strands of hair with his fingertips.

“Try”, Cristiano says.

_Please don’t get mad at me_ , Gareth pleads in his mind but doesn’t say it out loud because he knows it’s a really irritating opening to any kind of confession.

“This is...” Gareth says, waving his hand between him and Cris, “ _different_ to me than anything before. And it’s changing _me_ in a really dumb way. I mean, I see guys differently than before and I can’t help it. I don’t _want_ to have eyes for anybody but you. It makes me feel bad. Sorry.”

Gareth looks warily at Cris who doesn’t even blink an eye. “It’s normal”, Cris says. “There’s nothing to it. Don’t you remember what you said to Emma when we found you? That you still fancy her but you choose to be with me. It’s the same thing.” Cristiano shrugs his shoulders. “Normal. You just don’t act it out. But this time you did.”

Gareth looks uneasy and repeats his _please don’t be mad_ –mantra in his mind.

“Yeah, that day.” Gareth stares blindly down to a spot where he’d be wringing his fingers together if he had space but with Cristiano straddling his thighs he coincidentally seems to look at Cristiano’s crotch.

Cristiano tries bravely to ignore it but the glimpse of blue eyes under down cast lashes, the slight pink flush over the freckled cheeks and the pensive pout on the sharp wide lips doesn’t make it that easy.

Luckily Gareth lifts his gaze back in Cristiano’s eyes. “I missed you so much. Watching you on TV, looking at you, seeing you play… I could almost feel you in the close-ups. I remembered how you taste when I kiss you. It was – you were so hot. ‘Cause you _are_ so fucking hot. And I was all… you know”, Gareth says, voice muting down in the end. He draws a small spiral on Cristiano’s thigh with his fingertip.

_This is getting interesting_ , Cristiano thinks. “I don’t know”, he says, looking at Gareth with a little twinkle in his eye. “You have to tell me. I really don’t know what you mean.”

“I was all turned on, Cris”, Gareth says, failing to fight the deep red flush rising to burn on his cheeks. “I got so horny just thinking about you.”

“Tell me more”, Cris says.

“Then I… I think I kind of channeled it the wrong way. I really didn’t mean anything. I was just already in the mood and I was stupidly flattered that Sami even knew who I was. I’ve been so nonexistent most of the season, you know. And then when I noticed he was kind of checking me out, and started saying those personal things in a way that felt flirty… it was too bloody exciting.” Gareth is close to terrified by his own honesty but feels run out of any other options. “I’m so horribly stupid! I mean, I’m embarrassed to tell you this. It was never meant to go that far, please believe me”, he says worriedly.

Cristiano shifts on the armchair, lifting some of his weight off Gareth’s thighs.

“Oh boy”, he says softly. “You’re one naughty boy, Gareth.”

Gareth doesn’t know how to reply to him, he chuckles nervously and looks up in Cristiano’s eyes.

Cristiano bows his head down closer to his face. “I had no idea I’m dating such a little cock-tease.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t…”

“Oh yes”, Cristiano says in a low voice close to his face, “I think you do. Show me how you looked at him when you said you’re lonely.”

Gareth looks up in his eyes, biting his lip.

“Were you sitting next to him? Or across him?”

“No, we were standing at the bar. I leaned back to the counter.”

A smile ripples on the edges of Cristiano’s lips and he reaches down to cup his hand over Gareth’s crotch.

“With your half hard dick bulging in your pants? That’s just nasty. I can’t blame him thinking you were begging for it.” Cristiano shakes his head and rubs harder over Gareth’s jeans.

“Cris, please stop.”

Cristiano stops moving his hand and rests it over Gareth’s dick, squeezing lightly, adding pressure slowly.

“Oh yeah? Do you want me to stop? If you want me to stop, I’ll stop. Just say you don’t like this. I’ll stop.” He puts his other hand on Gareth’s head, meddles his fingers in his hair, gathers some in his fist, rubs the scalp with his fingertips and lowers his groin closer to Gareth’s lap, looking him in the eye. “I promise”, he says, hand over Gareth’s dick, heavy thighs straddling him tightly.

“No. Please. Yes.” Gareth’s answer is more breathing out than saying coherent words and Cristiano takes it as a license to go on.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do with you, Gareth. You’re one skanky slut running around the town like that. Wiggling your pretty ass and showing off you horny teenager bulge to old married men.”  He lowers himself down on Gareth’s lap, sliding his hand out from between them to a tutting gesture before his face, grinding down on him. He feels Gareth rock hard, strained against the sturdy denim fabric. “I bet he had to jerk off in that stinking cramped airplane toilet thinking about your blue eyes begging for cock. Or fuck his model missus to pieces before he even got his shoes off.”

Gareth whimpers under him. The boy has sat passively in the chair, his hands hanging down on his sides but it’s becoming too much for him, he gropes and claws rampantly at Cristiano’s ass to pull him closer, get him grind to him tighter and faster.

“Do you like it, Gareth? I can see you like it. Getting them all worked up for you and leaving them with nothing. You’re quite a bad boy, baby. But as long as you take it all home to your man, I don’t mind.”

Gareth is a squirming and gasping mess under Cristiano’s weight. Cristiano is a bit too heavy in his lap for comfort but as long as he keeps giving the heavenly pressure on his cock, he wouldn’t let him go for the world. He’s embarrassed for being so turned on but aroused beyond embarrassment, slightly humiliated but safe, he knows Cristiano is leading him through these emotions, this dark lust, and will keep leading him to a loving safe place and if Cris doesn’t  Gareth would still give him anything.

On the back of his mind he senses that Cristiano’s words are his way of weaving a narrative that isn’t only getting him off on this now but helping him live with what happened, giving him means to go on.

 

Cristiano eases it down, props his weight up on his knees. Gareth almost sighs of disappointment, slouches against the backrest and lets his hands drop.

Cristiano picks a strawberry and eats it; he picks another and pushes it in Gareth’s mouth. Gareth bites into it, eats the first half; Cristiano pushes the remaining half deep in his mouth and leaves his finger in because he loves Gareth sucking it so much. Some red juice drips on Gareth’s chin, he kisses it off.

Gareth opens his mouth and sticks his tongue out, licks his teeth and upper lip with its tip and leaves it out, looks at Cris with anticipation. Cris feeds him another one and Gareth makes sure to crush the juicy ripe berry with his teeth and lips because yes, he wants to lick Cristiano’s fingers clean, he wants Cris to touch his lips and lick his face. Another one: Gareth sucks it out of his fingers.

Damn Gareth is hot enjoying this. Cris has to crush the next juicy strawberry between his fingers to see what Gareth will do to it and boy does he love it, he licks each finger from knuckle to tip and back, sucks them in his mouth and laps the remaining bits from the palm of Cristiano’s hand like a baby animal.

It’s so good and hot and messy and eventually uncomfortable, the drying bits of strawberries tingling on skin that’s getting a bit slimy and clingy from the mix of fruit juices and drying traces of spit, there’s too much clothes between them and the chair is cramped and the leather starts to glue Gareth’s shirt to his sweating back; bed would definitely be a better place to take this now.

Cristiano climbs up from Gareth’s lap, pulls him standing on weak knees and guides him to the bed. They help each other peel off the clothes on the way. This is familiar, this is them back again, back at it, devouring the feeling of skin on skin, crazy and sexy, fun and in love.

Cristiano sucks and bites large dark purple marks on Gareth’s neck, “ _I want the whole Geneva, the whole world to see you belong to somebody”_ , he says. Gareth giggles out loud because he loves Cristiano’s hard hot mouth on his neck, and because he is terrified of the questions and mockery he’s about to receive later, but he wants to dive into the fear headfirst, embrace this life he is living because it is the best he has ever had.

_“I want to do so much with you, I want to have everything with you”_ , he whispers in Cristiano’s ear and describes to detail anything that pops in his mind. Outdoor sex. Licking and eating Cristiano’s ass. “I’d love to fuck some girl together with you. You’d sit her on your cock in your lap and I’d go down between your legs, lick her clit when you fuck her pussy and when she’s all wet and it leaks all over your balls I’d lick them too.”

Cristiano comes hard and hot, down to his balls inside him.

“I love you Gareth”, he whispers when he slowly wanes from the peak of his climax. “I’ve missed you more than I knew.”

 

They set two alarms to make sure Cristiano wakes up early enough to sneak back to his team hotel in time. It’s not the wisest move to stay with Gareth for the night and they both know it, but Cris is willing to take the risk and Gareth is glad he does.

If Portugal hadn’t already secured the top place of their group Cris wouldn’t do it, and Gareth wouldn’t let him.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I let myself loose on this one. I wanted to write Cris sassy and forgiving and cute because he is a superior being and above every petty thing in the universe.  
> I hope you liked the outcome.
> 
> If not, please take a look at this picture of serene zen tranquility and I promise you'll feel better.  
> http://faulker.tumblr.com/post/159956329320  
> Yeah, I hope he plays kickass worlds and I get to adopt him and be one proud hockey mama.


	15. In the sunshine of your love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I’m with you my love,_  
>  _The light’s shining through on you._  
>  _Yes, I’m with you my love,_  
>  _It’s the morning and just we two._  
>  (Cream – Sunshine of your love, Brown/Bruce/Clapton)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m melting with happiness for my Campeones and didn’t know whether to go for some fluffy fluff or steamy smut but let’s see where the lads are taking me. This isn’t probably gonna be a very plot-oriented chapter.  
> \--
> 
> They played Cream on the radio the other day. I listened to some more at home and started to write this.
> 
> \--

 

**June 14 th, 2008  
Neuchâtel, Switzerland**

 

Gareth wakes up face pressed to Cristiano’s side. His forehead and the tip of his nose touch the skin that covers the toned muscles over his gorgeous boyfriend’s gorgeous ribcage and he only needs to tilt his chin slightly forward to meet it with his lips.

He does it, plants a soft peck on the tanned bare skin.

It feels like waking up from a dream to another, better dream. Or in heaven.

Maybe heaven is like this, white light all over, scent of roses and strawberries and sex in the air.

The room bathes in light as the sun beams in only mildly tamed by the white blinds on the hotel room window. They’re in the middle of a comfy double bed, made with sleek white sheets. Okay, maybe the sheets are a bit nasty and crumbled right now but that doesn’t tone down the feeling of being in heaven, quite the contrary.

Cris sleeps comfortably sprawled on his back, one arm over his eyes. Gareth’s upper arm is thrown over Cristiano, his upper leg over Cris’ thigh; his knee and foot securely between Cris’ legs.

Cristiano’s skin is smooth and silky to his lips and exudes a delicate soapy smell of the upscale hotel room shower gel. They haven’t slept for too many hours, it’s reckless and irresponsible in the middle of an important tournament but showering together in the wee small hours of the morning was just a perfect way to close the most perfect night for a long time.

Or maybe it was even more perfect (is there such a thing, even? Isn’t perfect a superlative in itself?) that Gareth really fell asleep like this, snuggled close to Cristiano, clingy and touching, legs entwined. Thinking back he realizes that he hasn’t really dared to do it before. Yes, they have cuddled and kissed and hugged after sex, slept sharing the bed, side by side, but usually Gareth has somehow taken a respectful distance after that, rolled back a bit to place his head on his own pillow, as if to guarantee Cristiano his prescribed dose of undisturbed sleep.

Has Cristiano ever asked that of him? No. Has he ever implied that Gareth is in any way secondary to his professional athletic career, that Gareth should somehow apologize for the inconvenience he poses to the obligations of the sport? Never.

It’s all in Gareth’s head.

But it wasn’t last night, and it isn’t this morning.

_I’m entitled to this because we are a couple. I have a right to be here because I love him and he loves me._

It’s a mindblowing thought, a revelation.

It’s what makes this morning the heaven it is. The sunbeams dancing on the white sheets and the smell of roses only contribute to it.

Gareth scoots closer to Cristiano, squeezes him in a half-hug with the arm thrown over him, just above Cris’ waist. He presses his lips softly on his side, kisses Cristiano's body over and over again.

He ponders lazily which way to go from there. He could dive under the sheet, explore the luxury of the bronze skin basking in the golden sunlight whitened by the cotton fabric; trace the shape of Cristiano’s hips to where they cut to his thigh, plant soft kisses all along the shaft of his cock, listening to Cris’ breath to see how long he can pretend to stay asleep.

Or he can squirm upwards until his head rests on the crook of Cristiano’s chest and neck, shoulder in his armpit, study closely his lovely full lips and nuzzle Cris’ jawline with his nose to see how long he can pretend to stay asleep.

Gareth chooses the second option. He snuggles as close under Cristiano’s lifted arm as he can, rubs the side of his head to Cristiano’s chest like he was trying to dig it into a pillow. He traces the outline of Cristiano’s beautifully plump lower lip with his eyes and kisses him softly just under his chin.

Cristiano lifts his arm from is eyes and wraps it around Gareth’s shoulders, pulling him even  closer than he already is and kisses his nose.

“Good morning”, Cris says softly, the most tender look in his chocolate brown eyes.

“Good morning”, Gareth answers and Cristiano thinks that his eyes twinkle just as blue as Lake Neuchâtel on a sunny mountain morning like this.

The alarm on Cristiano’s phone starts beeping. He frees his hand from around Gareth but only to touch the snooze button.

He finds Gareth’s lips to brush them lightly with his, again and again, each time parting them just millimeter more to linger in the fragile, delicate moment of anticipation where breaths meet and mix before the lips touch; where the very edges of the lips brush, graze and caress each other before the open mouths finally press together for the sweet, deep taste and the slowly intensifying dance.

Gareth’s alarm goes off, he gropes the phone in his hand without looking and pushes it shut; Cristiano’s snooze alarm is next but he just laughs into Gareth’s mouth and mumbles “Never mind”. He keeps kissing Gareth and pulls him to a tighter hug to roll Gareth on top of himself.

They enjoy the kiss, easing the touch every once in a while, just nibbling each other’s lips and the sensitive skin around them. Then digging in the intimate shared wetness again, dizzy from the intensity of just making out, breathing in each other’s air until it feels so thick that it’s like their love has burned off most of the oxygen between them.

Both phones start beeping their wake-up calls. Gareth props himself up with his arms, gently straddling Cristiano.

“Shouldn’t you be going? You’ll be in trouble if you miss team breakfast”, he says and kisses Cristiano’s lips.

Cris puts his hand on the back of Gareth’s head, rubs his scalp and kisses him back. “Are you driving me away?” he asks, tilting his head to the side on the pillow.

“No”, Gareth says and leans in for more kisses. “Stay the whole day.”

Cris chuckles against his lips. “That’s my boy”, he says.

“How long do you really have?” Gareth asks.

Cris glances at the time on his phone. “Half an hour and I’ll still make it to the breakfast. I’ll only be a bit late.”

“Won’t you get in trouble?” Gareth asks and looks at Cris sincerely.

Cristiano slides his hands down Gareth’s back. He leaves them to the lovely curve where Gareth’s lower back starts arching into firm round buttocks and tugs him closer. Gareth lets out an aroused giggle.

“It’s worth it”, Cristiano says and lifts his head from the pillow to catch another kiss, because this sunny morning he just can’t get enough of one pair of cutely crooked Welsh lips.

 

_I’ll stay with you darling now  
I’ll stay with you till my seas are dried up_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay they didn't want to go too explicit and I respect their privacy :)  
> Don't blame me! Hope you still liked it.


	16. Love bites and transfer buzz

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I wanted to get the guys out of the Euros, maybe out of the summer, before I take a break from writing to concentrate on other summery stuff. This is what I came up with.
> 
> The story is definitely to be continued, but I don't promise new updates before August. Meanwhile, if you have wishes regarding this fic, feel free to express them and I promise to take them into consideration.
> 
> Enjoy!

**June 14th, 2008  
Neuchâtel, Switzerland **

 

It's funny,  Gareth thinks, how there's nothing nice about the way his sheets smell after Cris has left. It's basically just a stale stench of dried up sweat and cum over the slightly antiseptic whiff of unscented lube.

Still, when he presses his nose to the pillow with the covers drawn over his head and inhales deep, he can't help a stupidly sated smile spreading all over his face.

Love.

Love, love, love.

There's the difference. That's what turns everything around.

He wonders if Cris got in trouble for arriving late at team breakfast or if it's gone unnoticed. Cris could have said them he had room service and wouldn't have lied because he had some in Gareth's room; he insisted on ordering Gareth breakfast totally unnecessarily and didn't leave until the food came, nibbled some while he was feeding Gareth.

Yeah, feeding. With a fork, then with fingers, and Gareth still can't decide whether it is just stupid ass cute and caring or oddly erotic.

It's so vivid in his mind, in his tactile memory, like Cris was still here, offering him bits of egg white omelette or the other, the green one, must have been spinach, pushing them gently in his mouth. Resting his fingertip on his lip after each bite like an afterthought, accidentally.

Gareth had to almost kick him out of his bed to get him to leave. Cristiano's footsteps echoed outside in the corridor only for seconds, he ran so fast like it made any difference at that point.

 

Love. The tingle on his lips, like the fingertip was still there. Gareth loves remembering the touch, like he loves remembering the taste of mouthfuls of Cristiano's skin, the hefty weight of Cristiano's cock on his tongue. Cristiano is like caramel, every taste exploding in the mouth at once, creamy, rich, sweet and salty like the fudge they cook with real butter. Everything about him is perfect and Gareth can't get enough.

It's been like that from the start. He had to fight to keep his cool with the first touches of Cristiano's hands on him. Paradoxically, what helped him was noticing how overtly Cristiano checked _him_ out, the determined, predatory hunger that flashed in the brown eyes. It tickled his competitive nature, made him put up a decent resistance to keep the game interesting.

Did he know where they were headed? Or did they just pick it up along the way from the mutual curiosity to this? _This_ being exactly - what? Not only the best sex he's ever had, but thinking of Cris as -

that's it, because he's never, ever, felt this way before -

the love of his life.

Before he is even nineteen.

Like the age had anything to do with this. And besides, his birthday is only a month and some days ahead.

 

Gareth turns to his back and peeks from under the covers, curling the edge of the sheet snuggly under his chin with his fists and stares pensively at the ceiling. It's funny, he thinks again, how he can feel so good, lovedrunk but calm, only a day after being a shivering hollow mess, gut twisted in tangled knots of guilt and fear.

Gareth brings fingers to his lips, almost giggly with how they feel, all opposites at once, so bitten and kissed they're numb but hypersensitive, prickly where his fingertip meets the swollen surface.

He's _happy_. Giddy even in his fucked boneless state. Lovedrunk but calm.

Knowing that his love means something to Cristiano fills him up with warm confidence, the thought that he can make Cristiano feel like he feels for Cris is overwhelming. Even if it's only half of what Gareth is feeling, it's a lot, because Gareth is _bursting_ with his emotion, it pushes his skin outwards from the inside like he was a balloon. And Cristiano is everywhere, he may be heading to the training stadium for the final day of practice before his next match, but he is just as much here, lurking in the corners, stealing the last quick glance from the bathroom door like it was too much to part for even a minute, infectious goodbye grin hanging in the air like the cheshire cat he is. Hot hard mouth on Gareth's neck, short coarse stubble scratching his face, fist glenching his hair, legs tangling around his, knees digging into the space between his thighs, inching wider to spread them apart, skin rubbing on naked skin.

Gareth detaches his other hand from the sheet he's pulled over himself, lets it wander down. He lays on his back knees up, heels near his butt and slides the hand between his buttocks with a small sting of shame colouring his cheeks. Like this is something forbidden, feeling the physical evidence of how thoroughly fucked he is, the thought of the words eliciting a shy giggle that's about to bubble out from his smiling lips. He can slide a finger in so easily it's weird, to be so slack and wet, but he still flinches when the edge of a fingernail accidentally draws even the slightest scrape, it's so raw and sensitive.

 _Tenderised meat_ , pops up in his head and he chuckles at his own thought, from cute and sweet to gross and dirty in seconds, yup, he can master that.

He misses Cristiano already, he'd love to pull him to a wet, minutes-long, giggly-to-filthy kiss right now, share everything he feels at the moment with him, making it double and more.

 

It's what, roughly half a year, maybe seven months from the first time and yet it's like a lifetime ago. How he was about to bolt out from sheer embarrasment on how difficult it was at first, nothing had been awkward about their intimacy up until that moment, and nothing was rushed or unwanted, quite the contrary. It just felt almost bloody _impossible_ physically.

Gareth wanted to be on his side, the little spoon in front of Cris; he thought it made him feel secure and warm and it did, but it also made gravity work against their effort. It was weird how unpleasant it felt, a cold shiver up his spine when Cris added a second lubricated finger to the first that had slid in fairly easily.

It was a surprise because oh, he _loved_ Cristiano groping his ass from day (or night) one, stretching his buttcheeks apart and fondling the crack between them when Gareth was straddling him.

It eased a bit when Cris kissed the side of his neck with warm open mouth, telling him everything was all right, that Gareth was sweet and hot and beautiful, warm breath in his ear. Cris had leaned to his elbow to reach over and kiss him and the open-mouthed soft sloppy kiss echoed so pleasantly so deep down that he relaxed again. Not quite enough, though: the push of fingers on Gareth's muscle ring made him flinch and brought out an unintentional yelp of displeasure from his lips. Cris pulled back immediately, worried, and Gareth was close to cry from frustration.

But it got better. Cris turned Gareth gently to his back, looked in his eyes, brushed his wild hair back from his forehead with his cleaner hand, pressed soft little kisses all over his face and lips. Cris deepened the kiss, shifted the focus off Gareth's poor shy ass; he let his hips roll against the side of Gareth's hip, his slick hard cock sliding arousingly along his hipbone, the lubed slick hand reaching for Gareth's cock, stroking it smoothly up and down. Cris took his time, inched slowly one knee at a time between Gareth's legs, letting Gareth's thighs part for him on their own accord, moving his hand down only after Gareth clearly indicated he wanted it.

(At that point, Gareth was _very_ clear: he took Cris by the wrist, looked him in the eye with a bit glazed and horny but confidently smiling look in his dazzlingly blue eyes and guided the hand in its place.)

Gareth gasped at the finger entering him but it was a good gasp this time, one followed by a lustful sigh from lips that remained parted and lids relaxing over clouded-up eyes, and his sweet ass swallowed the second finger to the knuckle, and Cristiano's curling and stretching movements made Gareth mumble a series of _fuck_ s in a tangled jumble of erratic breath.

"Now, Cris. Please. I need... now." Gareth's voice was thick, words broke around the edges.

Some more lube. Slow, slow motion; Cristiano took great care to be ready to withdraw from his sweet virgin boy any moment. Until it was clear he didn't have to; Gareth was as open and soft as he could be but still tight as a fist, but tight in a good, shit-hot way, such an alive, throbbing squeeze around his cock.

Gareth felt split open, owned, possessed. It wasn't comfortable, but uncomfortable didn't mean that it was bad. Because it wasn't. It was good, and it stopped being uncomfortable, because it was good, very good, and Cristiano lowered his whole body very close to Gareth, kept kissing him sloppy and hot and deep, was inside him and all over him, never letting him go, except when he did, only to catch him all over again. Everything had changed even though only that one thing was new but what was new was huge and it was irreversible. He had been fucked and he would never be unfucked again; he had liked it and what was best, he'd get to do it again.

 

There's training gear in Gareth's bag, he could go for a run. He's not that tired and now that his feet and legs are fit to use, he wants to use them.

But first he needs to brush his teeth.

"Shit", he says to the bathroom mirror.

No way are all those dark brown love bites going to fade in a day.

 

 **June 15th, 2008**  
**St. Jakob-Park**  
**Basel, Switzerland**

**Switzerland-Portugal**

 

There's not much at stake when Portugal meets the host nation Switzerland in Basel but Gareth's travelling there with Cristiano's family, anyway. He hardly sees a glimpse of Cristiano during his whole stay in the town; Cris is not starting and Gareth can't see his spot on the bench from his seat in the stands.

He's wearing Cristiano's Portugal jersey, because they all are. They're red ones, not white that the squad wears today. Gareth is painfully aware of the generous V neckline of the shirt; he would much prefer polo collar that he could lift up to shadow the bruised state of his neck, as if it would hide anything.

He has done some shopping, he's not that clueless. He has tried out both the foundation and the thicker concealer he got for a cover-up, but either the shades are wrong for his skintone or he just can't use the stuff right, it doesn't really blend in and it's hard to decide if his neck looks worse with or without it. He ends up trying a little bit both, and the damp weather adds another factor in the mess.

Cristiano's mother politely ignores the sight. Gareth sits by her side on the stadium; she's relatively calm following the game, Portugal losing is clearly not as hard to deal with when her son is not participating to it.

Their conversation is minimal, as always. They don't really have a common language and Gareth has known for a long time that behind her friendly demeanor Dolores doesn't really acknowledge or approve Gareth's role in Cristiano's life.

They exchange a sparse word or two. Dolores struggles to find them in English, but it's still more than Gareth could in his turn say in Portuguese.

"You are good friends. Nice", Dolores says at halftime when the game is still waiting for its first goal. She lifts a thumb up and smiles. It's a friendly smile but there's a good measure of determination, too, like she is giving an order with the way she stresses the word _friend_. Gareth doesn't feel he can argue, and he doesn't know whether to feel frustrated or relieved with Dolores' chosen blindness.

Cristiano doesn't step on the pitch at all, and the teammates who do miss their chances. Hakan Yakin of Switzerland doesn't but his two goals don't change what's coming next: despite their loss, Portugal gets to stay in the tournament and prepares to face Germany.

 

 

 **June 19th, 2008**  
**St. Jakob-Park**  
**Basel, Switzerland**

**Quarter final**

**Portugal-Germany**

 

White number 7 outruns the red number 7. Cristiano plays a good game but his best shots are either blocked or just wide, whereas Bastian Schweinsteiger scores one and sets up two with free kicks that Miroslav Klose and Michale Ballack both net neatly with powerful headers.

Cristiano's entourage aren't on the edge of their seats, they can't keep to them at all, the quarter final is that exciting. Portugal chases Germany's lead admirably and Cris is close to tie the game just before halftime but that's the one that almost whistles on it's way just on the wrong side of the far post.

The time runs out on Cristiano's chase for a goal, Portugal's chase for a goal, their chase for a chance to proceed to the final four. No, it's Die Mannschaft who get that chance, get to not only celebrate a 2 - 3 win over Portugal but what's more, to keep on playing.

If Cristiano is not livid after the final whistle, he's close to it. Gareth can see the it in his moves out on the pitch: the tense neck, stone-hard face, stiff, edgy steps.

Cristiano is disappointed and angry, but the stiffness of his moves is not only emotional. He has played through pain and it pisses him off that it was to no avail. It would be much more glorious to meet an orthopedist as an European champion, not a - literally - sore loser.

"It hurts", he confesses to Gareth later, and Gareth leans down to kiss on his aching ankle that clearly shows signs of swelling.

"I know what it's like", he says quietly, because pain is something he's unpleasantly familiar with. "But you'll get better. Let me get you ice."

 

* * *

 

 

Cristiano keeps flirting with Real Madrid through the media. He sends a coy but clear, naming-no-names message through Sky Sports right after the loss to Germany.

Some days he gives journalists these baits, some days he stays silent on the subject.

Dolores has already spoken about her dream to see his son play for the Spanish club earlier in the year, and statements like these are no innocent slips in any interview concerning a high-profile professional athlete.

 

Gareth distances himself from the subject at first. He plays oblivious because the hype is unnerving: it's been hard enough to keep seeing each other often enough between two cities in England, how can he even dream of surviving an international long-distance relationship?

Finally he has to give in and confront Cristiano, because the Portuguese hasn't opened up to him unprompted.

It's a series of frustratingly vague conversations. Some days Cris talks to him with enthusiasm, but it's more daydreaming aloud than giving out a clear picture of where he's standing right now. Other times he looks at Gareth pleadingly, saying he can't talk about it. Sometimes he slips out a fact, like a date or place of a meeting that's coming up, but when Gareth tries to ask more, Cris clams up and changes the subject.

"I'm your boyfriend", Gareth says, warning leaking in his voice. "I can put up with your mum pretending I'm not but I don't want to hear about your transfer in the news."

Cris seems to finally get it. He pauses whatever he's doing and his shoulders drop. "You won't have to", he says, looking Gareth in the eye and presses a kiss on his lips, like sealing a deal, "I promise."

 

The fact is that nothing is really clear until later. While Cristiano sits caught in the middle of a tug-of-war between two football egos, he can't truly say which way he's pulled stronger until either of the parties make their move.

Before the summer ends, however, it shows that this time the north side pulls harder than Florentino Pérez. Alex Ferguson has won the battle, if not the war; his precious Ronnie defends United's trophies for another season on Old Trafford.

Still, everybody sees it's only postponing the inevitable. Nobody says it out loud, but it feels all around: it's going to be Cristiano Ronaldo's farewell season in England.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh the new kit photos! They seriously throw me back to the days I was writing Dream Talk Night Day. If you haven't read it and want something when this is on hold, go there now, you'll find it clicking my author name.


	17. Wayne's wedding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glad to be back, I’ve missed my guys!  
> I said earlier I’d reschedule Wayne Rooney’s wedding that in reality took place on June 12th and I did!  
> The timeline of the story goes back a bit here, I wanted to deal with the transfer rumors with some closure in the last chapter but this sends the boys back to June 2008.
> 
> What have you dear readers been doing this summer?  
> When I had this story on hold I wrote my first hockey RPF fic and posted it half accidentally. It’s locked to users only, features a pairing that had appeared in only 2 fics in A03 before and has some untranslated lines in Finnish because it’s fun to be annoying sometimes. And guess what: in less than a week it went past my least popular football fics and now it has more kudos than the original My Fair Lad which I consider one of my really good works. Can’t say it doesn’t make me question my choice of fandom. But won’t say it makes me reconsider it completely; I’m sticking to this story and have lots planned for future chapters, little bits even written down already.
> 
> (Umm yeah and I had some ideas about another sequel in the 3some series bc I started thinking about Oktoberfest in München – Munich sounds so boring compared to the German name, doesn’t it! – and James greeting everyone saying “Grüss Gott!” and Toni in leather, but let’s not get there now… maybe I’ll just wait til it goes away. Besides, I have a the hockey fic sequel to finish first.)
> 
>  
> 
> Enjoy!

 

* * *

 

 

"I didn't send you an invitation because I didn't wanna jinx it for you, man, but don't say you can't come, Ronnie, please!"

Wayne Rooney sounds anxious over the phone, like he was truly afraid that Cristiano won’t believe him and refuses to come to his wedding that's going to happen three days before the final. He is genuinely sorry to invite his Portuguese friend so informally and on such short notice but he has had his reasons.

Like he said, he didn't want to imply that Portugal might be out of the Euros by the time he gets married.

"It's for two. Bring a date. OK Mag will cover the reception but you can stay off camera, in case you're shy. Didn't seem that way, though."

"What do you mean?" Cris asks.

"I mean the Euros", Wayne says slowly, like talking to an idiot, "Gaz sporting a neck full of love bites, sitting next to your mama and wearing your jersey. It was on the telly, you know. Can't get much more territorial than that."

Cristiano mutes down a snicker. He should be more worried than pleased, and maybe even more worried about his lack of worry, but at the moment he doesn't mind it, Gareth being his. Being Gareth's.

He can let it show in ways like this, ambiguous situations that can be explained in more ways than one. Gareth can be his young and single friend who has had a hot night with a girl before coming to see a football match. He may be wearing his shirt to be polite to his family. That's what most of the people will see there, anyway, and in public the majority will shout down those who see it differently. 

There's a warm tumble in the pit of his belly when he thinks of the minority who see the truth there, see that lovely, talented Welsh boy as who he is, his boyfriend. His lover.

The tumble in his belly  _should_  be a warning and feel more unpleasant than it does but no. It's a thrill, he can't help feeling smug and pretty fucking proud in a dominant, possessive way.

 _My boy_ , he thinks.  _Mine mine mine._

 

Cris limps back to the bedroom, as naked as he was answering the phone in the kitchen of their Mediterranean holiday retreat, a secluded villa on a small island off Ibiza. Apart from lazying in the sun they haven’t done much else than each other there; Cristiano’s pained ankle forces him mostly to stay down and Gareth is kind enough to keep him company to that.

He lifts the phone to take a picture of sleeping Gareth. He will use it as evidence the next time his Welsh boy says he doesn't hog the bed because at the moment he certainly does, lying in the middle of the mattress on his belly like a dead squid thrown on a rock, long limbs sprawling like tentacles to all directions.

Cristiano kneels on the bed and places his phone on the bedside table, lands it down carefully to make no noise. He draws the sheet partly covering Gareth slowly aside, grabs Gareth's ankles, yanks his legs straight side by side and straddles his thighs just below his ass.

"We're going to Wayne and Coleen's wedding, babe. Just got invited", Cris says, shifting a bit sideways because his dick is hardening nicely and he wants to fit it in the crease of Gareth's ass.

"Mmmh-What?" Gareth asks sleepily and tries to turn to his back to face Cris but Cristiano is quick to pin him down by leaning to Gareth's forearms with his hands.

"Wayne Rooney invited us to his wedding in Italy and we're going", Cris repeats and leans down to bite the nape of Gareth's neck with bared teeth because he's tempted and because he can.

Gareth yelps a bit but bows his head to expose more of his neck to the touch of Cristiano's mouth. Lips, teeth, tongue - he likes any part of it just fine.

"When?" Gareth mumbles into the pillow, Cristiano's hot and humid breath on his skin making him unwilling to move.

Cristiano has to detach his teeth from the neck to answer. "Thursday" he says simply. "Behave yourself. If you go hitting on some guy there I don't know what I'll do. I may have to put you on a leash", he continues, moving his other hand to where his mouth was before, rubbing sternly the back of Gareth's neck near his hairline.

"Mmmh." Gareth lets out a low pleased hum. Cristiano's thumb is stroking the side of his neck almost scraping it, some inches below his ear, over an artery in a way that awakens his senses and makes him want more.

Gareth wants to turn so he can pull Cristiano down for a kiss but Cris has other ideas. He is heavy and strong and uses it to his advantage. Cris presses Gareth's thighs together with his shins and slides his hand down the boy's neck, holds him in his place.

It is a glorious and fortunate fact, Cristiano thinks, that his boyfriend has the single most fuckable ass in the world. It curves so deliciously from the small of his back, toned and strong but smooth and round and milky white below the tan line. It's like everything in Gareth's beautiful body leads and points to it: the nicely developing athletic Y-shape of his back, wide and toned upper back narrowing to a tempting long waistline, the almost feminine curve where the waist merges to hips, creating room for all those powerful thigh and buttock muscles that contribute to the movement and speed of his miraculous legs and feet.

That exact spot, the curve of Gareth's hip, is one of Cristiano's favourite places in the world to put his hand on; he loves to let it slide there when they walk his arm loosely draped across Gareth's back; he loves brushing his hands down Gareth's sides when he lies on the bed and rest his palm on that delicate bump for a moment.

_My boy. Mine mine mine._

Cristiano starts a slow riding movement, rocks back and forth, let's his cock glide over the crack between Gareth's buttocks, the whole length from the sensitive exposed tip to his balls pressing to the glorious curve, taking his time, again and again. He hears Gareth's breath turn coarse and heavy, sees and feels him arch his back to push his ass up to him; the curving dip of Gareth's spine deepens when his back muscles tense.

"Down boy", Cristiano commands sharply and Gareth obeys in an instant, drops his hips flat to the mattress and that's something, Cristiano rewards him with a firm rub on the nape of his neck and leans forward to give stronger pressure to both his cock and the sweet tight ass that almost trembles from resisting the urge to push up.

Cristiano loves his baby so responsive and compliant, so hungry to be touched.

“You like this, baby?” he asks in a soft, husky voice, straightens his back and drags his fingernails over the skin of Gareth’s buttock, right next to the spot where his cock presses down hard and heavy. Blushed Gareth pants, freckled, lightly tanned cheek of the face turned to the side on the pillow, and breaths out a “yes”. Cris repeats the feather light stroke the other way, up the side of the buttock, and the anticipating gasps of breath his boyfriend draws in from between his parted lips send direct messages to his cock.

Cris flattens his hand and slaps Gareth’s buttock sharply from the side. Gareth flinches from the impact but without really missing a beat his face melts into an ecstatic smile. That’s a surprise but also quite a turn-on and Cris has to try again, smack the center of the ass-cheek, harder this time, enough to leave a pink patch lingering on the skin for a moment.  Gareth lies still, trance-like, eyes lidded, breaths hard through slack parted lips, surrendered and relaxed.

Cris has to back down a bit to appreciate the sight and the sound, he supports himself up on his knees, strokes the glorious butt with soft fingertips.

"Oh Cris _ba-_...by", Gareth growls softly. The way his voice crumbles thicker and deeper guides Cristiano’s moves; he lets his fingertips slide between Gareth’s buttocks, massage there softly but sternly, finding the rim of his hole to tease it with a fingertip.

 

Gareth moans to the feeling the touch sends through his body and resists the physical urge to push up. Cristiano’s other hand has a stern grip of his hair, keeping his head down like he would even dream of moving, he's right where he needs to be.

He feels a sudden wet lump of spit landing in the middle of his ass, twitches because it catches him off guard but doesn’t mind when he feels Cristiano’s fingers on his ass a bit more slippery than they were before, and yet again it’s almost not enough, no, it isn’t _nearly_ enough.

His mind wants to stay put to please Cris but his body is raging, his thighs try to part on their own accord but Cris keeps them together, the straddling thighs and knees and shins are steel and keep him firmly down. Not spreading for Cris is new which is odd, he’d think they’d been through pretty much everything by now but apparently not. It’s actually nice to feel the extra friction of Cris coaxing in a finger but who is kidding who here, he needs more.

“Cris please”, he wails softly, and there’s a shift of weight on the bed, good God, thanks, the sounds confirm that Cris is reaching for lube, and then the weight is back on him, one slick finger followed quickly by a second one, it’s almost too fast but not really, he adapts quickly, fuck yeah it’s good.

Cristiano’s other hand leaves his hair sliding surely and warmly down his neck, leaving when it reaches the spot between his shoulder blades. Gareth hears it squishing out more lube, feels the slick substance splurged all over his ass, hears the squelch of Cristiano slicking his own cock and can’t help whimpering out of want and anticipation.

Fucking _finally_. Cristiano’s fingers slide out, leaving with a slow scissoring motion, the round spear head of his cock is guided in their place, splitting Gareth up to an ache that settles into an intensifying pleasure of being filled as Cris drills down slowly, pleased sigh growing into a hoarse moan when he’s in.

Cris lowers his torso to lean to his elbows, the weight and warmth of his chest blanketing Gareth’s back. He fucks down on him almost gently, almost _too_ gently because Gareth’s cock could use the pressure of being slammed down to the mattress hard and good. Gareth tries to signal his want with a pleading whine but has to resort to words that refuse to come out very clear. “ _Pleasefuckplease”_ , he pants, “So good, Cris… _harder!”_

 

Cris loves the way Gareth’s voice crumbles with the last word and he does his best to please, drives down with full force, speeding up his pace to echo Gareth’s pleased, broken gasps of _yes, yes_. He pushes his upper body  up to use his hands on Gareth’s ass to push his hips down he way the boy seems to like it now, if the way he gets louder tells anything. And oh boy, does he feel sweet and tight around him.

Cris can tell from Gareth’s breath that he’s getting close and it feels like a rush of power to get him react that way. He remembers the reaction he got out of him earlier; if he gets it again it will be something. He lifts his other hand off Gareth’s buttock and gives it a good spank and holy shit, the way Gareth shudders under him and the way his sidelong-looking eyes go all glazed tell him to do it again.

Another smack, and Gareth lets out a deep growl muting down to a gasp of withheld breath; he freezes, mouth open, pleasure-veiled glazed eyes closing, clenches tight and hot until he kind of pulsates around Cristiano’s cock, riding out an orgasm.

That’s the hottest thing _ever_. To make the boy come just _spanking_ and fucking him hard is a sensation that’s enough to send Cris over the edge. He wants to own Gareth, mark him, make him his in all ways he can think of; he pulls out, rides his cock along the crack of Gareth’s ass, helps with a couple of tugs until he feels the inevitable tide rising.

He watches mesmerized through the wave of pleasure and release how the slimy white ropes of come flow and splutter over the white ass-cheeks and the pinkish tanned back.

Cris sweeps the slippery substance with both hands, in the heat of the moment he smears it into Gareth’s skin with one hand, digs it all sticky and dirty into the messy brown hair, pushes three fingers of the other hand in the boy’s mouth, humming approvingly when Gareth sucks them.

Cris lowers himself slowly down; he’s half on his side clinging to Gareth’s side, half draped over his back, one leg over his thighs. "I'm so proud of you, baby. My baby. My miracle", Cristiano mumbles into the crook of Gareth's neck and shoulder. He beams from the emotion that fills him; it overflows as a scorching hot, glimmering, heating afterglow he never wants to cool down.

Gareth squirms to turn around between the messy sheet and Cristiano’s embrace until they are face to face. His stomach is damp and he smells of the outburst of their bodies combined, but his eyes are the brightest and bluest thing Cristiano can think of. He wouldn’t stop looking into them but when Gareth leans in for a deep, slow kiss that still tastes a bit of Cristiano himself, they’re too close to stay on focus.

  

* * *

 

They take a boat trip to the main island the next day to visit Wayne Rooney’s stag do.

The groom-to-be has partied for a couple of days already and is lounging around a pool with his other guests to recharge the energy. Wayne snickers at Cristiano who lays on a sunbed next to him, glaring daggers over the patio at a spot where Gareth is vividly talking to Steven Gerrard.

“Still sore about it?” Wayne asks and bends almost twofold from laughter when Cristiano sends him a gloomy glance from under his brows. “C’mon, Ronnie, you can’t view all Liverpudlians as threats!”

Cristiano refuses to admit that he’s jealous; he blames his sunken mood on the physical soreness that forces him to rest more than he would like to, that makes his moves slow because he has to support his bad leg with a crutch and it still hurts. He’s going back to England for a magnetic scan next week and will most likely undergo surgery after that, if no miracle has cured his ankle. The date and place of the surgery need to be settled; everything is still blurry and open, except the stinging fact that it fucking hurts.

“I’m not…” he starts, waving his hand haphazardly in the air, stealing glances at Gareth from the corner of his eye while trying to maintain a conversation with Rooney. Bloody Gerrard is pinching his boyfriend’s outward-pointing ear right now and Gareth’s high-pitched giggle carries well over the water in the pool. “…Whatever.”

Cris stifles the instinct to call for Gareth, it would sound stupid and needy. Luckily Gareth glances around the patio and catches his eyes, and a genuinely happy, warm, loving smile spreads all across the open Welsh face. He leaves the little group he’s been chatting with and comes to Cris.

For a moment it looks like he’s going to throw himself all over the Portuguese like he’s used to doing in their own holiday villa but as he gets closer, he hesitates a little, gaze bouncing between Wayne’s deck chair and other seats around Cris until he chooses to sit on the edge of Cristiano’s sunbed.

Cristiano grazes the shell of Gareth’s ear with his fingertip, the same one the Liverpool captain just pinched and lands his hand on Gareth’s knee.

“Are you sure you have enough sunscreen on? You burn easily”, he says to Gareth.

Gareth smirks and rolls his eyes at him, squinting in the bright sunlight. “Yes, daddy, I think I do”, he says mockingly. “I just applied some more fifteen minutes ago ‘cause you told me to.”

Cristiano frowns but not for long. He reaches for a glass from the little table on the other side of his sunbed. “Taste this”, he offers but doesn’t hand the glass to Gareth. He rests it down by his ribs, and Gareth bows over him to sip the cocktail of fruit juices through the thick straw. Cristiano scans the patio with his eyes over Gareth’s head like a lion guarding his territory, stopping on Wayne on his side. Rooney quickly turns his eyes the other way like he was not following Cristiano’s actions, looking away with an amused smile lingering on his lips.

“Good?” Cristiano asks Gareth who nods, licking back a drop of juice the straw has left in the middle of his upper lip.

“We’ll get you your own, Gaz”, Wayne chimes in and signals for a waiter to come outside from the shadows of the columns that hide the 24-hour bar open for his party guests in his rented villa.

 

Gareth takes a dive in the pool and Wayne turns to Cristiano, a lopsided frown of discomfort shadowing his face.

“No offense, Ronnie, but can you chill with it in the wedding a little? Like… just hold back a bit about… you two together?” he asks, gesturing awkwardly between Ronnie and the pool.

Cristiano looks back at his teammate deadpan and gloomy. “We don’t have to come at all if we make you uncomfortable”, he retorts rigidly. 

Wayne shakes his head and spreads his hands almost desperately. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound like that! It’s not me, believe me, I’m all for you guys, you know it! It’s just… It’s Coleen’s day, okay? She wouldn’t say it out loud but she’ll be upset if anybody upstages her in her own wedding. And you’d be big news, you know? If two footballers would go all” – Wayne makes ridiculous kissy faces and sounds – “It will steal the spotlight, right? Especially if it’s _you_.”

Cristiano softens. He gets it, any bride wants to be the center of attention on her day as the princess and has every right to it. And Wayne acknowledging his fame… he would never admit it even to himself but flatters him, strokes his vanity the right way.

“Okay”, he says, giving his friend’s ridiculous stubble of hair a rub with the palm of his hand as a confirmation. “But stop startling me with what sounds like sudden homophobe bursts, okay? I don’t want to start hating you.” 

 

* * *

 

Umbrellas are a hit accessory among the wedding guests as they gather some days later to a hilltop between Portofino and Santa Margherita, to a medieval Italian abbey turned to a luxurious hotel and events venue.

Cristiano’s fingers itch to caress Gareth’s arm, hand or thigh during the service; he is almost grateful for his ankle for keeping him out of the dance floor during any slow romantic songs that would be made for rocking Gareth in his arms.

The rain eases at a part of the night when everybody’s attention is on the happy groom putting up some kind of a singalong show with the party band Westlife. Cris seizes the opportunity to head outside and Gareth follows.

Cristiano leans to an old stone wall under the shadow of a lemon tree, surrounded by the sweet smell of flowering gardenias.

“Do you know what’s the best part of a wedding?” he asks Gareth.

“What?” Gareth asks.

Cristiano lets a seductive smile rise on his lips. “Everybody is on a romantic mood. You get to try and pick up the hottest guest for some hot times.”

“Oh”, Gareth says and looks in his brown eyes, sparkling in the dim garden lights that peek through the leaves of the tree. “Who did you have in mind this time?”

“I think you know”, Cristiano whispers, grabs the front of Gareth’s tuxedo jacket and pulls him to a deep, soft kiss.

Gareth presses closer. Cristiano’s hands let go of his lapels and find their way under the jacket, feeling the back muscles through the thin fabric of Gareth’s white shirt. The kiss gets more heated, lips parting for a taste of each other, tongues demanding attention from each other. Cris leans to the wall legs slightly ajar, giving Gareth space to push his knee between them.

Cris seems to like it, Gareth moves on to kiss his neck, slides his hands down his sides, grabbing the fabric of his shirt to pull it out of the trousers because he’d really like to –

A lightning cracks its flashlight across the sky, there’s a grumbling roar of thunder, and the rain starts pouring down again. It’s heavy enough to start trickling down between the leaves of the tree in no time, and another lighting strikes. Gareth would really, really love to go on but Cris grabs his wrist gently.

“We shouldn’t be under a tree in a thunderstorm”, he says softly and kisses Gareth’s lips.

They manage to find their way back inside tracing the wall, the measly shelter of the eaves keeping them from soaking completely. The party is in full swing, a group of Coleen’s friends circled on the dance floor, shaking their ruffled colourful dresses, Wes Brown making out with his girlfriend behind an elaborate flower arrangement.

They leave with quick thanks and congratulations to the newlyweds, letting the rest of the crowd continue partying long into the morning. A car is already waiting for them, and they kiss on the back seat until they’re almost smothering each other; Gareth’s eyes gleam their pale blue loving warmth in the darkness when he parts for breath.

Another lightning illuminates the night and Gareth’s fingers curl in the hair of Cristiano’s neck, holding on to him like seeking reassurance.

Cristiano brushes Gareth’s hair back with both hands, secure and warm. “I love you”, he whispers and kisses the trembling, swollen lips. “I love you.”

 


	18. Pride is a hot word

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One blowjob, one rainbow dragon flag.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the Pride bit isn't too sappy. Thanks to Jackdaws for validating some of my views on it.

 

Green, red, white. The last sparks of fireworks paint the sky over Portofino peninsula, Gareth and Cris already on the way to their room in a small three star hotel in Santa Margherita. It’s not the usual accommodation Cristiano would choose on his travels but the choice was limited in the area with entertainment journalists flocking every spot to get glimpses of the wedding party.

“They celebrated in Welsh colours”, Gareth snickers into Cristiano’s lips once the door clicks closed.

“I think they’re Italian”, Cristiano chuckles back. The way his close whisper vibrates on Gareth’s lips tickles, Gareth has to lick them to get rid of the itch. He drags his tongue over his bottom lip close enough to hit Cris who takes it as an invitation to a kiss, sucks the tip of the tongue inside his mouth as he crushes his lips around Gareth’s.

The kiss becomes one of the dirty ones, blatant foreplay, open, wet, penetrating, accompanied by belly-deep growls and slick sucking noises. Gareth has already got rid of his damp tuxedo jacket and is winning the fight against his black tie that soon hangs wrinkled and loose. He starts unbuttoning his shirt but moves his hands to Cristiano’s chest in the middle of the process, sliding his hands under Cristiano’s jacket, inside the sleeves, pushes them down his arms. Cristiano’s crutch drops to the floor with a clank as he lets go of it.

They’re by the bed already, Cris slouches down on the edge, lets his torso sink across the mattress.

“I’m drained”, he says, arms sprawled in his tuxedo shirt, feet on the floor.

“I thought nothing would wear you out”, Gareth smiles, opens the rest of the buttons of his shirt, opens the cufflinks and peels off the clingy fabric where it’s left damp in the spots the rain has managed to soak through the jacket. “Let me help you.”

He squats down by Cristiano’s feet, unties his dress shoes, pulls them gently out of his feet. He shifts closer, kneels between the spread knees, opens Cristiano’s belt and fly. He shuffles back to pull the trousers down, lifts Cris’ feet one by one to undress each leg.

He makes room for himself between Cristiano’s legs again and presses kisses to the inside of each knee. He cups a knee with one hand, the front of Cristiano’s briefs with another and strokes the growing erection through the elastic material, loving the gasp he elicits from the gorgeous Portuguese mouth. Gareth sees the front of Cristiano’s white shirt rise and sink as his breath deepens. Gareth’s heart races. He wants to make this good.

He drags his mouth slowly up the thigh, stops for gentle nips with his teeth, wet sucking kisses. He moves to the other leg, kissing the route from the knee up halfway like the first one. Cristiano tastes salty, Gareth opens his lips to suck in a mouthful, the hard cock twitches to the palm of his hand under the fabric like saying hello.

He switches back to the other thigh, licks a slow winding wet path with his tongue towards Cristiano’s groin and caresses the tip of the hard cock through the underpants.

The pad of his thumb meets a damp spot where Cris is already leaking. The discovery makes him shiver with satisfaction and he gives the inner thigh another bite and suck, hitting a sensitive spot because Cris gasps and instinctively bucks his hips up, thrusting his cock to the palm of Gareth’s hand with a sudden jolt.

The upper half of the other thigh is still untouched but not for long: Gareth bites gentle nips at it, draws his tongue flat and wide all the way up to the cut of the briefs. He slides his hands over them, crooks his fingertips under the waistband and carefully pulls the pants down, letting them drop on the floor.

He keeps it slow, guiding Cristiano’s legs gently to a wider spread, putting his wet open mouth on the thin sensitive skin on the crease of Cristiano’s groin, down between his balls and thigh. He kisses his way around the balls to the other side, leaving a wet trail of saliva behind. Cristiano pants like he’s running a drill, head thrown back on the bed, eyes closed.

Gareth’s tongue draws slow spirals on Cristiano’s balls before going on his trail to lick its way up Cristiano’s hard cock. His hand lets go of the shaft as his mouth replaces it, slowly eating the length in deeper and deeper.

He loves doing this to Cris, hearing the gasps and moans, throaty hissed stuttered half-words, he loves the actual physical feeling of all of this in his own body, too. The shiver all over when he presses his chest to the insides of Cristiano’s thighs, his nipples swelling when he rubs them against Cristiano’s skin for friction. Holding back the gags that try to bubble out when he lets the tip of the cock slide down his throat, the concentration inside his body and the spinning in his head when the air starts wearing thin, how he can control it releasing the cock, not all the way but just enough to inhale silently through his nostrils to let the narrow stream of air to his lungs again.

He works Cristiano with all he has in his mouth, hollows his cheeks to let the slick insides touch the shaft, lets the whole width of his tongue make wide laps, the agile tip tease the most sensitive creases and veins. He lifts his head and lets the cock slide out enough lick the swollen hard crown and give it little kisses; he takes the whole length deep in again, swallowing around it, keeps his mouth at work until he feels Cristiano freeze. He can almost hear the little stir in his cock when the flow starts, he hugs Cristiano’s hips through it, drinking it all down.

Cris is almost passed out, silent, relaxed, for an amount of time neither of them has the energy to measure. Gareth leans to his thigh like a pillow, slouched down on the floor, still tenting his tuxedo pants. Cristiano’s hands dig their way to his armpits, pull him to the bed; Cris closes him in his embrace, cradles him in his arms.

“Fuck, Gaz.” he breaths out through slack lips. “Just… you. Fuck.”

Gareth can’t think of words to answer him. He breaths into the crook of Cristiano’s neck, giggly and sex-stupid and proud, more than grateful of Cristiano’s fingers finding their way down to his fly to unzip it.

 

* * *

 

Pride. Gareth has stared at the tall letters emblazoned across the opposite wall on the tube for the most part of his ride without really registering the word, but when the realization finally hits him, he almost laughs remembering the last time he actually thought of the feeling it describes.

After an exceptionally efficient blowjob, how appropriate.

 

"I want to go" he blurted out at Cristiano a few days before, after Cristiano’s MRI scan, before it was decided that Cris would actually travel across the Channel to the Netherlands to have his ankle operated in Amsterdam.

Cristiano raised his eyebrows. “That sounds so fucking political”, he said. “I thought you’re not into that shit.”

"I don’t mean marching or in any special event but to watch”, Gareth continued, “Some less crowded spot."

“It’s still political”, Cristiano said. “There's no way you can go there and not be political. Because you are a fucking Premier League footballer. You don’t fool anybody saying you just stand and watch. It’s a statement if you are there. Even if you just pass by on your way to buy sweets from a corner shop. ”

“I don’t eat sweets”, Gareth mumbled and Cristiano guffawed out a snicker, Gareth actively forgot every time he cheated on his diet, he was good at that.

 

Gareth feels driven by a sense of obligation, of honour, even. It's a similar feeling as visiting a war memorial or wearing a poppy on the Remembrance Day; respect for those brave enough to fight for a better life, for freedom of others.

The thought feels too silly to put it into words, but he wants to go. That’s as much as he can say.

Cristiano's surgery is scheduled right after the Pride week and he needs to travel for preparations in advance. Gareth thinks it's no coincidence but doesn't want to talk about it. Still, Gareth can't shake the feeling that it's just too convenient for Cris not to have to come up with an excuse.

It's political, Cris keeps saying, and he’s not the only one. Gareth hears almost the same exact words from Chris Gunter, who has the opposite standpoint from Cristiano. And Aaron Ramsey who stands somewhat in the middle: a bit suspicious of going but not truly reluctant.

“Of course it’s a statement but it’s bloody right to make a statement! If the official top level football, national FA’s and the Premier League and the Premier League clubs ignore the event it’s even more important that individual players take a stand!” is one of the arguments Gunter uses in their longish debates on whether and where and when they should be attending.

“It could be fun to check it out but does it _have_ to be so bloody political? I mean, can’t we just hang out there, see the costumes and hear the music? Aren’t there some good DJ’s in there too?” Ramsey asks.

Gareth is not sure about the DJ’s, he’s not been thinking about the entertainment side of it, but he thinks Aaron’s view is just and rightful. Why can’t it just be fun? Why does it have to be so hard, what amount of time have they spent already in Chris and Aaron’s flat pondering about this from all possible points of view?

They’re slowly moving past the whether-question to a yes, and they’re making progress at a question they usually don’t spend much time thinking about, which is “What to wear?”

“I’m saying no to the club jerseys. I’m not going to pretend I’m officially representing the club there. I’m not risking getting in trouble for that”, Aaron says and the Spurs boys agree out of solidarity to do the same.

“What about Wales jerseys?” Chris asks.

“I don’t have mine in London”, Gareth says.

“So it’s no team clothing. Everyone just throws on what they feel like wearing considering the weather, like usual, is that it?” Chris asks, sounding almost disappointed.

Aaron and Gareth ignore the tone and hang on the words. “Yes, that’s it”, they say almost in unison.

 

Aaron feels like a soft grey polo shirt and jeans shorts. Chris, always a fan, wears a Cardiff City T-shirt and Gareth has found a white sleeveless T-shirt with a giant Welsh dragon printed over the chest. Chris would be jealous of it if he didn’t have his own Welsh dragon that he proudly presents to his mates. It’s in a flag, and the background is not white and green but a rainbow.

“You’re waving that throughout the day? Wow”, Gareth blurts.

“I think he is, yes”, Aaron says. “He practiced with it all morning. He could join a marching band by now.”

They stroll through the crowded sidewalks, occasionally taking a side tour a block further when a spot feels too packed. Finally there’s an opening near the fence by a small park, in a place where it feels one can breathe.

A young reporter recognizes them and approaches them with a small voice recorder and a microphone. She wants Gareth to comment the  News of the World story from February but Gareth politely declines.

“I’d rather not comment anything outside football, I’m sorry”, he says with an apologetic smile.

Chris, on the other hand, chimes in voluntarily.

“That kind of idiotic, thoughtless journalism shows exactly why these events are needed”, he says. “If merely walking on a certain street is implied as something to be snickered at, something shady and shameful, a scandal, what kind of message does it send about our society, especially to the young people that are just growing up into themselves?” he exclaims.

A loud plastic horn toots on the background for the last half of Gunter’s comment and Gareth doubts if it can actually be used on the radio. Shame if it won’t, he thinks.

 

What strikes Gareth the most throughout the day is that apart from the three of them, he doesn’t run into one single person he knows personally. It’s a big city, yes, and there are a lot of people around, yes, but it’s a high profile public event and he’s – well, at least to some extent a public figure.

It makes him think that there is something very narrow, very limited to the world he lives in, the world he has grown to love and embrace with all his heart.

Does it mean he can’t any more, that he’ll love the world of football, of sports, with less than all his heart?

 

Two different groups of footballers march past them in their team uniforms; Gareth recognizes none of them but joins Chris and Aaron in cheering and waving at the marchers enthusiastically. It feels right: these are their people, universally united by the game.

A middle-aged man's eyes stop at them as he walks by and glow of recognition lights up his face. He turns to say something quickly to a fellow marcher next to him and returns his gaze to the trio just as quickly. He looks moved, emotional; Gareth can see the bobbing on his neck like he swallows back a lump in his throat, but he smiles widely and fondly and waves at them.

Gareth keeps waving his hand, lifts his other thumb up at him and smiles back; Aaron waves at the man and Chris holds the pole of his raised flag in a good grip with his both hands and makes the rainbow Dragon fly in a large flapping movement above his head.

The man presses his hand over his heart and his lips seem to form the words "Thank you". He holds eye contact with each of them in their turn before the parade has moved on and a colourful squad of some of the most gorgeous drag queens Gareth has ever seen replaces the gay footballers.

 

“I still wish you would come out”, Chris says later over pints of orange. “It would make a huge difference for so many.”

Gareth squirms in his seat, staring down on the orange bubbles floating in his glass.

“You know I can’t decide on that alone”, he says quietly.

He confesses that it bothers him a bit, like they’re taking a step back with Cristiano after the holiday together, Cristiano being obviously only relieved when Gareth didn’t accompany him for his surgery trip to Amsterdam, how he took good care not to act very affectionately in public after their return to England.

“Is it the fans? I mean, can the clubs really fear so much of people’s reactions that it rubs off on him?” he wonders.

Chris lets out and annoyed huff.

“That’s bullshit”, he says. “Fans are the easy scapegoat, always and eternally. I say follow the money. Look at the big sponsors. Look at the new areas football is spreading to as a game. Follow the money”, Chris says and gives him a pointed look.

Aaron comes back from the toilet, takes a look at the serious faces at the table and without sitting down finishes his juice, clattering the ice cubes in the glass.

“C’mon lads”, he says and grins. “I think it’s time to find us a party. Shouldn’t be too hard today.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jim Daly nails my feelings in Wake Me Up (When Pre-Season Ends).
> 
> https://youtu.be/lIEJ01FZvho


	19. Nineteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not everybody makes it to Gareth's birthday.

 

 

Golf. Golf in Wales.

Of all possible things Gareth's choice for his birthday is a round of golf, and of all possible places he wants Celtic Manor. Not Miami, or South Africa where, Cris has heard, you can tee off a 400 foot seaside cliff, or somewhere else, somewhere exotic and fancy and fun.

But Wales, and golf, and he agrees to it, not yawning even once at it if Gareth is present.

Cristiano is a bit uncomfortable because he knows the game is one where he won’t be the best, but heck, he still has his foot in a cast so it turns out he can just drive around in a golf cart checking Gareth out and it’s not bad at all. Besides, he can participate in the party planning side of it: decorating, menu, music.

What he is a bit concerned about is the guest list. Gareth invites Emma and her sister and brothers.

Who invites his ex to his birthday party?

A Welsh golf enthusiast, apparently.

“I miss playing with them!” Gareth explains in a whiny voice. “And it would be awkward to have the boys and not her. You’re cool with each other, aren’t you?” he says, and Cris has no choice but to assure that yes, they are.

He says so, but during the evening he can’t help casting sidelong glances at the short, tanned Welsh girl who has to look up at his boyfriend to meet his eyes with her own, wide, round, surrounded by thick black lashes, prettily manicured fingers rearranging her flowing brown curls.

The ease in the way they smile and talk vividly at each other, Gareth’s hands casually on the edges of his front pockets, sends a sting of jealousy through Cristiano’s chest. When Emma laughs at something Gareth says, folds almost in two and leans on his forearm for support to balance on her stilettos, he feels he needs to make himself seen.

Cris manages to take two glasses of champagne from a tray, holds one in his free hand, one in the same hand as his cane, goes to them and hands them the glasses.

“Glad you could make it here”, he says to Emma, the most charming smile he can master on his lips.

“Of course”, she smiles back, raising her glass, as Cris places his hand on Gareth’s nearer shoulder. Gareth wraps his arm warmly around his waist and leans his head on his shoulder, close and warm enough to butt his hair to the side of his neck.

Cristiano grins. Mission accomplished, ownership claimed.

 

Not everyone Gareth has invited has made it to the party. Chris has stayed away because Aaron might come, and Aaron is unfortunately unable to attend for some vaguely explained reason that screams fake.

Gareth regrets the way he has not been the most sympathetic ear to Gunter after the Pride weekend. Maybe he would have been able to help in time if he had listened to his friend closer, paid attention to what had happened and made a bigger effort to reach out for the both of them before things got to this – whatever it is, awkward alienation?

But no, he was too concerned with Cristiano’s surgery: waiting for the first news after the operation; replying the garbled texts that he sent from his heavily drugged state, and later on, waiting for his return.

 

He met Chris Gunter right after the weekend, for a run in the morning.

Gareth asked about Aaron as casually as usual, and was surprised to see how his friend’s posture sunk.

“Did something happen? I mean, after I left?” Gareth asked. He slowed down his step, stopped to lean his palms to his knees, and after Gunter’s prolonged silence guided them both to a bench on the side of the path.

The evening after the parade and the pub had been a lovely swirl of euphoric blur. They had half-accidentally wandered into something that Gareth thought was a rave, some kind of an impromptu dance club in a park.

It had been fun, but Gareth had retreated early, for more reasons than one. For starters, he felt exhausted and wanted to secure a good night’s sleep; after a bad injury had made his debut season a disappointment, he was not going to risk anything preparing for the next one.

Another thing he didn’t want to risk was getting in trouble with… anybody, by any means. Whenever he saw a cute guy eyeing at him, he carefully looked away. If they were just flirting, he would feel unbearably guilty in front of Cristiano. But there were worse options, too, such as ending up in a gossip column, or worse, in another set of tabloid headlines.

The thought alone made him shiver from an unpleasant chill. Never again.

 

Chris sighed deep and hung his head. The silence he was dragging out made Gareth nervous. Something bad had happened, but what?

“What was it? You didn’t take drugs, did you? Or have your drinks spiked?” Somehow those were the first options that sprung to Gareth’s mind, maybe because when he left, the young Welsh duo had been buzzing pretty high on their festive mood and were more than eager to down drink after drink from the seedy-looking pop-up bar under the trees aligning the lawn that served as the dance floor, dimly lit with strings of tiny lights blinking colorfully among the leaves.

Chris cleared his throat and spat quickly on the ground. “Fuck, I wish”, he huffed, wringing his fingers anxiously, grabbed the front of his t-shirt and stretched the collar to rub his face with it, as if to wipe back sweat.  “It would be simpler”, he mumbled into his shirt and blinked his eyes fast a few times.

Man, was he crying?

Gareth extended his hand to grab his friend’s shoulder in reassurance and partly to force Chris to look at him, but the other boy quickly stood up and started jogging again.

Gareth kept the same pace, concentrated on his breath, on his steps, listening to his body, how it felt, pleased to notice that it was good, _normal_ : no aches anywhere, no nasty sting on the operated leg. It sent a nice little wave of excitement through the back of his mind, a feeling of being ready and looking forward to the coming season, but the feeling died down as soon as he glanced at Chris, still frowning as he jogged by his side.

Nobody can run forever. Gareth knew it and was patient.

“What was it?” he asked Chris again when they had ended their run by the training grounds. Chris slouched down on the grass outside one of the football pitches, leaning back to straight arms, and Gareth followed suit but soon leaned forward to his bent knees to better pay attention to Chris.

“I don’t know where he is. Ramsey. He left early yesterday and I haven’t heard of him since.”

“What?” Gareth almost shouted. “Why?”

Chris shook his head and let it hang down towards his chest. He squinted his eyes like in utter discomfort, snorted quickly is nose, spat on the ground and made a little roll with his shoulders like preparing for a hard task.

“Promise you won’t spread this around?” he started, giving Gareth a quick sidelong look, to which Gareth quickly nodded.

“We kissed. First there at the party, then at home, we like – just snogged and cuddled for at least half an hour, an hour maybe?” An array of emotions swept on Chris’ round face, a soft smile on the first confession like a reflection of a happy memory, swiftly replaced by a pained expression. “But then – he pulled away, but not like he was regretting anything, he was just smiling like ‘wow, that was new’ and went to the loo, and when he came back he just”- Chris brought his palm to his temple – “mussed my hair, like this, kissed me on the other cheek and said ‘Let’s talk in the morning’, went to his room and shut the door.”

“And?” Gareth prompted, eyes wide.

“I heard something early in the morning but I was terribly tired and my head was just pounding, I couldn’t lift a finger and I didn’t think anything much of it. I just assumed Rambo was just doing some normal morning stuff but then the door went and he wasn’t anywhere anymore. He didn’t come back and he hasn’t been back since. I tried to call him once and sent one text, but… I get it, he just fucking ran away.” Chris wiped his forehead, then his nose, with the back of his hand. “I should have got it from him leaving, calling after him was just… so fucking pathetic and needy and… oh fuck.” His voice crumbled like he was tired of talking. “I fucking hate him. No. I fucking hate myself.”

Gareth swallowed hard and shook his head. It was horrid that Chris blamed himself because… it was Aaron who had done a cowardly, cruel, despicable act.

Still, it was nothing Gareth hadn’t done himself, after the very first time he had got together with Cris, and again, scared by the unfortunate aftermath of Cristiano’s birthday party. Who was he to blame anyone?

Cris. He remembered suddenly that Cris was probably in the operating room in Amsterdam and itched to dig his phone from his pocket to check if there were any messages but stifled the urge. He was already dragging out the silence after what Chris had told him, and his friend was apparently awaiting some kind of a response.

“Don’t fucking hate yourself for this, none of it is your fault. Was it the first time you... kissed or anything?”

Chris only nodded in silence. Gareth sighed. He couldn’t really say _I know you’ve had a crush on him for years and I always thought it was mutual_ because that would just rub salt in the wounds.

“I’m sure he’ll come around, I mean, he has to, logically. I guess he just needs space.”

That was lame, but what could he do?

Chris had shifted his position, he leaned his torso forward to his long, lean thighs, fingering idly at the soles of his running shoes, picking little stems of grass from them. He shrugged as much as he could. “I hope. I hope he’s alright, though. I’m not going to ask around for him, I’ve fucking humiliated myself enough.”

Gareth thought of Cristiano, the amount of texts he had received from him before he agreed meet him the second time, how he had come after him to Chris and Aaron’s flat. How he had arranged for a private plane and a hotel room to give _Gareth_ a chance to apologize to _Cris_.

Oh man, his boyfriend hadn’t gone an extra mile for him, he had gone literally around the world. The hottest young footballer in the world, the hottest fricking _human being_ in the world had done it for him.

He felt his heart swell in his chest at least three sizes bigger.

But this wasn’t about him.

“I can try to reach him. Or ring his mum. I won’t say you were asking about him, just check what’s up”, he offered.

Chris looked relieved. “Oh, thanks, mate”, he said, and for the first time in the whole morning there was a hint of a smile around the corners of his mouth.

 

Gareth found out that Aaron was okay, he had driven to Wales and stayed at his parents’. Gareth didn’t prong any further because Aaron was very sparse with his words; it felt safer to change the subject.

“Another thing”, Gareth said, “my birthday is in a couple of weeks, I’d like to see you there.”

He had just got the idea there and then but didn’t tell it to Aaron. He surely hoped that he could get the place. He would invite Chris, too, and those two could talk and sort things out.

Aaron thanked and sounded exhilarated, but couldn’t promise he would come.

 

Maybe it was too obvious, maybe things just aren’t always that easy. It’s Gareth’s birthday, golf is over, dance floor is lit with colourful lights. Aaron isn’ t there, Chris isn’t there, but there are candles and sparklers on a cake, and singing.

There’s Cris who steps in Gareth's space ever so smoothly, almost waltzing, presses close behind, the warmth of his body oozing in Gareth's back, the spicy scent of his cologne surrounding the both of them. Strong familiar arms wrap around Gareth's waist.

“You want to go to our room, birthday boy?” he hums in Gareth’s ear. Gareth smiles, glad that the party is strictly no-cameras, friends-only occasion, because moments like this have got so rare.

“I thought you’d never ask”, he whispers back.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to make sure I get something out for a kind of an anniversary, I noticed I've joined the archive on October 16th, 2016.  
> Thanks for reading, glad to be back! It's funny that my summer hiatus was, in the end, wayy shorter than this accidental (or, to be honest, hockey-related) one. I hope there are still people on board!


	20. Like a slice of pizza

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unsaid words, introspection, angst and smut.

In bed everything is great and nothing matters. It’s a kingdom where pleasure reigns, kisses blossom. Mouths open to each other like moist flowers, rich and flowing with nectar, skin becomes a golden field, an uncharted ground to roam and explore.

It’s entangled wet tongues, hard cocks rubbing against each other, bodies turning compliantly to let hands find their way. Fingers curling in hair, a sudden pull on the scalp, gasps and moans signaling the flame it incites.

Gareth bites into the meat where Cristiano’s neck meets his shoulder, tastes the salt in the sheen of sweat covering the bronze skin. How have they ever ended up like this in their heated squirming, he’s not sure, he took no notes, but the whole trip has been hot and sweet. Cristiano out of breath under him, bowing his head down to offer the nape of his neck to be licked and sucked and bitten, the muscles of Cristiano’s back under Gareth’s chest, Gareth’s hard cock throbbing with near-pain, pressed tightly between their bodies.

Gareth’s mouth trails the neck up to Cristiano’s ear, and Cris turns his face to the side to give him better access. It’s sloppy, some saliva will probably end inside the ear but Cristiano doesn’t care, it’s too fucking hot, he pants, lips pouty and open, utters his lover’s name hoarsely, under his breath.

Gareth detaches his mouth, licks a hanging drop of spit quickly back inside his mouth, just as breathless, props his torso up with one hand. “What, Cris?” he asks, like the Portuguese hadn’t only been voicing out his pleasure.

Cristiano turns slightly to look over his shoulder and Gareth slides down to the bed on his side. Cristiano’s eyes gleam like black pearls in the murky room.

“Do you want to fuck me, Gaz?” he asks.

Gareth lets out a burst of laughter, more joyous than surprised. “You can’t just offer your ass like a slice of pizza”, he says finally after pursing his lips to a quirky, lopsided smile for a moment.

Cristiano turns to his back. Gareth shuffles closer to the foot of the bed and places his chin on Cristiano’s chest. “I know you don’t mean it that way but I won’t take it like it’s some kind of a birthday present. I need to know you really want it. I won’t fuck you unless you beg me to.”

Cristiano lifts his head from the pillow, flexing his strong neck easily. He presses a quick peck on Gareth’s lips and looks him in the eye with a hint of challenge.

“You have to make me”, he says, licking his lips as if to taste Gareth on them.

Gareth’s eyes sweep Cristiano’s face from his lips to his eyes and dart back to the mouth. He leans close enough to press the tip of his nose to Cristiano’s. “One day I will”, he whispers confidently and sinks his mouth in a deep kiss.

“Why not now?” Cristiano asks when he detaches his lips from the kiss for breath.

“That doesn’t sound like begging to me”, Gareth mumbles into the corner of Cristiano’s mouth, teasing smile in his voice.

 

July turns to August with a sizzling anticipation boiling up inside Gareth. He is focused and hungry in his preseason training, can’t wait for the season to start. The trust he receives in return still surprises him: he has in no way filled his spot last spring, but the club treats him like he’s just as valuable an asset as he was expected to be last summer, after the transfer.

Maybe it indicates that his gut feeling is not so wrong. Inside he knows he can play, having to stick to recovery has not taken that away. And he is lucky enough to have people who can see it around him.

“We want you to wear number 3, if that’s okay with you”, they say, and it’s okay with Gareth, very okay.

 

Later Gareth thinks that concentrating so strongly on his own work in his own club is one way to push away any doubts concerning his future with Cris. When Cristiano disappears behind closed doors for phone calls, goes out to hotels and offices for quick negotiations with Jorge Mendes and even asks a few days off from United to fly to Portugal Gareth refuses to think what it means.

Even if he doesn’t want to, eventually the conclusion becomes impossible to ignore. Gareth sees how Cris tries to keep his face deadpan but excitement lingers by the corners of his mouth that keep curling to a hint of a hidden smile, it shows in the distracting combination of the rigid jawline and the peppy spark in his dark eyes.

The bid war with its endless threats, sidenotes, terms, clauses and conditions is said to be completely informal but everyone knows the result of the discussions binds the participants as tightly as it was cast in iron.

 

Gareth can’t blame Cristiano for gleaming. Being the most coveted footballer on earth strokes every streak of his vanity and he basks in it like a flower in sunlight.

The flattering sunlight comes with a price, and it seems like Gareth is the one who has to pay the hardest share of the bill.

After Cristiano’s last trip to Porto and the last couple of mumbled phonecalls behind closed doors, the ones who leave him barely able to hide his proud gleaming, things start to change gradually.

“I’m letting the loft go”, Cristiano blurts one morning very casually, like a making an irrelevant remark about weather or his sister getting a new haircut. “It’s my last year here, I can do with the Cheshire house.”

It feels like a punch in the diaphragm to Gareth, pushes air out of his lungs for a moment, leaving him speechless. _It’s our place_ , he wants to protest, but words refuse to come out. _Why_ , he wants to ask, but he knows why and doesn’t want to hear it. Cris can’t risk being outed, and being known to hang regularly around Canal Street counts as good as being outed.

And now that the Real Madrid rumours make him more followed than ever before there is a fair chance that wherever he goes, he’s caught by paparazzi.

“Fair enough.” That’s all Gareth says once he gets his voice back, and takes another sip of his coffee.

It goes further. There are nights when they’re apart, Gareth going to sleep early to prepare for a full day of training ahead, and he hears or sees only later that Cristiano has been going out with some other mates, Manchester people, his Portuguese or Spanish friends. And not only that: Cris gets photographed with girls, giving a kiss on the cheek to one, hand around the back of another, sharing a laugh with a third one, stepping into a cab where there may be a brunette on the backseat or then not, it’s hard to see from the blurry dark snapshot.

Situations that can be read as innocent but that can also imply – or scream - this: look at this young hot footballer being irresistible to girls and not resisting them himself, either.

One thing about Real Madrid is crystal clear. They want Cristiano Ronaldo. They don't want the first big name out gay footballer. They don't want an out gay footballer, period.

Chris Gunter’s words ring in the back of Gareth’s head. _Follow the money._ Gareth wouldn’t want to admit that Chris was right but all the evidence points that way. If you follow the money you can't end up far from Real Madrid, at least Florentino Perez' Real Madrid.

It makes it so much harder to think what Gareth wants. Suddenly he's back at being bad business for his boyfriend and it hurts. Knowing that Cristiano will move across the fucking continent hurts. Knowing that he can't follow hurts. 

Of course Gareth has thought about it. Near-delusional desperate mindtrips where he begs his agent to get him into any Spanish club, the nearer to Madrid, the less he'll demand of any other aspects of the contract.

Those thoughts pop up in Gareth’s head on lonely nights but in the light of day he pushes them back. He is not a fool. Football is the only thing in his life he can compare to what he feels for Cris.

If he’s honest to the core, it’s the only thing that surpasses it. If he is going to see how far football will take him, he has to not only play it right on the pitch; he has to play it right outside it, take the right steps at the right time.

With Spurs, the right time is now. Stepping away from his path to try and make it in some low-ranking Spanish club would most likely be a grave misstep, a side tour that would take him nowhere.

Still, it sucks to be here, it sucks to feel Cris take his distance, it sucks that it hurts so much Gareth will rather pretend he doesn’t see the paparazzi shots than confront Cristiano about what is going on. It’s not like he can talk to Chris, either; Gareth feels that between the two of them he’s not the one who can complain. Aaron has moved out of the shared flat and avoids Chris even worse than a month ago.

 

Gareth shuts up and takes what he has. To be quite honest, what he has is still quite a lot.

In bed everything is great and nothing matters. Cristiano’s legs are heavy over Gareth’s shoulders, the musky smell of his crotch is almost pungent but it makes it even better, it’s intense and sexy. The blunt head of the fleshy hard cock pushes to the back of his throat so harshly it will leave a burn that will keep his voice hoarse and husky for the rest of the night.

Gareth has the lube handy, he makes his fingers slippery and slides one in, not letting the cock out of his mouth one inch. He feels the muscle ring of Cristiano’s hole around his finger, hears the gasps and encouraging whispers.

He adds another finger, explores, caresses and strokes.

It's time to embrace the challenge. He knows he can do this. Tonight he will make this beautiful man, the most coveted footballer in the world, beg for his life to be fucked.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry not sorry for the sex cliffhanger! It's more for myself this time: I need something to keep me going, something to start the next chapter with.
> 
> Tell me anything you're thinking about! Have your favorites made it to the World Cup? 
> 
> And in case you missed / I haven't told, you can also talk to me on tumblr, pob-lwc-caixa.tumblr.com! Let's mourn our wounded prince together there, or swoon over pretty northern hockey boys (I'm a diverse and chaotic blogger).
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	21. Filling some boxes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going for a long, plot-oriented chapter but ended up with 2,8K of packing day fluff and smut. Typical.

 

“Fair enough.”

Yes, that’s what Gareth said when Cristiano told he would get rid of the loft, and oh God, does he wish it represented his true feelings about the case.

But no, the more the thought settles in, the less he’s okay with it. It feels wrong. It’s like the first road sign about an exit on their shared road, one where Cristiano takes off and Gareth drives on forward on his chosen lane.

It’s not his flat, he hasn’t had more of his belongings there than a toothbrush in the bathroom cabinet, but it’s so much more _theirs_ than any other place. It’s where everything started, it’s the place of some of the best and some of the worst moments of their shared history.

 

Cris is going to leave all the furniture and the appliances there, packing only the clothes from the walk-in closet, the personal knickknack from the drawers. The real estate agent has said that in its pristine condition and its state-of-the-art decoration it’s more likely to sell furnished and decorated than empty, and where would Cristiano need any or the sofas, or the coffee maker, or the modern, angular steel version of a king size four-poster canopy bed? His Cheshire estate is furnished as well, and what awaits him in the hush-hush-secret destination that’s secret to, well, nobody who even remotely follows European football, is a new life, a blank canvas. The last thing he needs is crate-loads of British furniture.

So, bye-bye, industrial brick walls, farewell, the small glass panes of the huge factory windows.

 

“You won’t take this one?” Gareth lifts a blender on the kitchen counter. Cristiano tilts his head, purses his lips to keep back a lopsided smile and looks at him from under mildly raised brows.

“Because I used it to make you your first Ronaldo specialty recovery drink?”

Gareth blushes. He didn’t want to be that obvious but he’s happy Cristiano remembers it as well.

“I guess you don’t need it”, he mumbles.

“You could take it to London”, Cristiano suggests but Gareth shakes his head.

“No thanks. I’ve got one already. I don’t need two.”

 _I need you_. It pops in his head because it rhymes, he reasons.

What if he made a scene of it right now, in the middle of going through the cabinets? Cry out loud _PLEASE DON’T LEAAAVE!_ , wrap his arms around Cris, hang from him with all his weight most dramatically until they collapsed on the hardwood floor? They’d lie there on top of each other, laugh their asses off until tears streamed down their faces and end up cuddling.

He doesn’t do it. Cristiano looks so concentrated on his task, he is making a list of things to pack on his iPhone, he’s so organized about everything.

And wouldn’t it be very untimely? Cristiano still has the season ahead of him here, in England, and that means lots of time together, lots of time to figure out what to do next. It’s not like Cris is leaving _him_. They wouldn’t be here together if he was. He is packing _with_ Gareth because he wants to spend time with him.

 

Cristiano draws zippers around garment bags, oh Christ, some of his clothes are really going to be moved out of the loft hanging in wheeled racks like they were sent to a fashion show. Others are going to be packed more conventionally, which is a relief to Gareth because it’s a welcome association with normality; Cristiano stacks shoe boxes inside larger removal boxes, and folds pairs and pairs of jeans and sweatpants in large suitcases.

Gareth stands opposite to him, hands him items from the shelves and hangers. He’s given up participating in the folding: Cristiano would only take every piece of clothing Gareth had folded and placed in the box or suitcase and fold it again. Gareth couldn’t tell the difference.

 

Gareth helps empty the mirror cabinets and drawers in the bathroom. He smiles at the black eye make-up products, raises them in his hand to catch Cristiano’s eye, Cris smiles at them, then at him.

“They’re probably past the use by -date. You can toss them in the bin”, Cris says.

He must notice Gareth’s face drop long and moody for a second because the next moment he grabs Gareth’s hand as Gareth is about to drop an eye shadow and two liner pencils in the rubbish. “Hold on” he says, “I’ll check them.”

He looks at the products like really considering something. “Maybe I’ll need them,” he says and places them in a box.

Gareth reclaims the hand that just touched his, then grabs the other and draws Cris in a kiss, needy and expressive. Cristiano lets out a low growl into his mouth and pushes his fingers in his hair.

“Oh Gaz,” he murmurs in the middle of the kiss, “You dear hot Gaz.”

 

Cris orders in some sushi from the place on Canal Street and Gareth smiles as he side-eyes him, Cris has not forgotten anything, not a thing.

It’s getting dark, Gareth notices it when the food arrives. He’s been too concerned with the packing to pay attention to the lighting outside the windows.

 

Cristiano steals a nigiri from is plate and scoops the rest of his wasabi to go with it, he’s eaten his own, and Gareth lets him.

“There’s no point in leaving tonight”, Cris says, glancing out of the window. “Can you stay overnight?”

Since when Gareth can’t? He nods, mouth full of rice.

Cristiano clears the plates and picks up another empty removal box, this time to go through the drawers of a stylish dresser near the bed and the nightstands.

Suddenly he bursts out a short guffaw of laughter. Gareth turns his head.

“Look what I found!” Cristiano beams, hanging a pair of handcuffs with two fingers, grinning at Gareth.

Gareth narrows his eyes and looks at him in mild discontent.

“Don’t remind me,” he says.

Cris places them down on the nightstand and comes to Gareth, cups his face and looks him in the eye. “Sorry,” he says and kisses his lips.

Gareth melts in a smile, corners of his blue eyes bunching into laugh lines that spread towards his cheeks.

“It’s okay.”

Cristiano’s fingertips rub Gareth’s scalp behind his ears, the kiss intensifies, and Gareth starts slowly to realize that Cris is really _claiming_ his lips, demanding him to finally stop puttering around with the packing chores and get on with what they really should be here for.

 

Undressing while walking the few tango steps to the bed is gloriously sweet and easy.

 

Cris lays himself on his back, leans to the headboard, Gareth gives little kisses to the curve of his upper lip, feels the hands down his sides. His hips hump to Cristiano’s thigh on their own accord, Gareth not needing to think about it.

He sweeps with his tongue the same route he traced with his pecking lips before. Cris bites up to it, chases the tongue with his own. His hands make a swift brush up and down Gareth’s sides, a bit too impatient to Gareth’s liking actually, when they approach the armpits it gets close to ticklish.

Gareth sits up and straddles Cris.

“What if you kept your hands to yourself?” he suggests.

Cristiano’s eyes dart to the side, to the nightstand.

“You mean?” he asks.

_Oh._

Gareth didn’t mean the padded handcuffs, he had forgotten about them, but… he guesses it’s worth a try.

 

He raises an eyebrow and takes the leopard pattern monsters (he has no idea where the pink ones went after that unfortunate night, maybe they’ve been packed already) in his hands.

“Hands above your head, luv” he says.

Cris does as told, and it makes his chest and sides widen to their obscene glory, _what a show-off_ , Gareth thinks to himself and smirks. Cris knows his thoughts _exactly_ , he knows how Gareth looks at him, Gareth can tell it in the smug pride that ripples in the dark eyes.

“You’re mine now, aren’t you?” he says as he opens the first one of the cuffs and closes it around Cristiano’s wrist. Cristiano nods a confirmation, looking in his eyes.

Another one. _Click_. Gareth tugs at the short chain, it rattles a bit, Cristiano’s joined hands follow the pull, and a hint of – what, discomfort, fear? – flashes in his eyes.

“Okay?” Gareth asks with a concerned look, Cris licks his lips quickly and breaths out a short “Yeah”.

Gareth gives him a kiss, wet and languid, sweeping his tongue along the wall of Cristiano’s teeth, leaves it sucking his lower lip. He hears a short rattle of the chain in the middle of the kiss, Cris trying instinctively to touch him, hug him.

Gareth smirks, that’s not gonna happen tonight. Not for a while, at least. He moves his mouth down, kisses Cristiano’s neck, takes gentle bites of his collarbones, goes on down.

He licks Cristiano’s nipples, one by one, gives a gentle pinch to one with his teeth. Cristiano flinches and yelps, Gareth soothes the bite with another steady, warm, wide lick. Cristiano’s breath settles to a deep pant.

Gareth takes a look at Cris, he has shut his eyes, his lips move a little, restlessly, like forming silent words. His chest heaves with breaths, hitches when Gareth’s mouth meets the sharp cut of his hip.

“Oh Gaz,” he sighs. Gareth sucks at the crease of his hip and thigh, hard enough to leave a bruise on the thin, sensitive skin.

 

“Oh Gaz”, he hears again. This time he senses a different tone in Cristiano’s sigh. The handcuffs rattle.

“Gareth!” it sounds urgent, Gareth lifts his face, props his shoulders up with his elbows.

Cris looks down at him, he has lifted his head from the pillows, holds the cuffed wrists in front of his face.

“Gareth, can you please let me out”, he says. The urgency has intensified in his voice, but somehow it sounds small and scared at the same time. There’s panic in the eyes, dark in the night lighting.

Gareth scoots immediately up the bed.

“Of course, no problem,” he says, fumbling with the keys he grabs from the tabletop, glad he doesn’t drop them, opens the handcuffs, takes them off and puts them to the side.

“I’m sorry,” Cris apologizes, looking vulnerable and embarrassed. It’s the most un- _Cristiano_ expression; Gareth doesn’t remember having seen Cristiano like this, if not in a situation where Cris has had a real reason to apologize to Gareth.

Now isn’t one of those times.

 

Gareth shakes his head, takes Cristiano’s hands in his, kisses them, kisses his wrists and rubs them, kisses his lips. “No, no,” he assures. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t like. I won’t let you feel bad. Not on my watch,” Gareth says and kisses him again. “I love you and you deserve nothing but fun.”

Cris gives him a modest smile as a sign of recovery from the moment of anxiety. Gareth crawls up the bed to cuddle him, snakes his arm under Cristiano’s neck and draws him to a close hug.

“I mean,” Cris says, “I remember what I put you through and I should have – “

Gareth shushes him with a finger over his lips.

“That’s crap,” he says, “You can’t compare it like that. I liked it, you didn’t. You didn’t know until you tried.”

Cristiano snorts and wrinkles nose. “I don’t know what it was. Why I panicked.”

“It’s okay, Cris,” Gareth assures, “I don’t mind, honestly! I would have hated it if you didn’t tell me you were uncomfortable and just suffered it through for me.”

Cristiano extends his hand to the back of Gareth’s head and pulls him to a kiss. “You’re too good for me,” he whispers as he breaks from it.

Gareth nibbles at his bottom lip. “Oh yeah?” he whispers back with a hint of a challenge in his voice and moves his lips lower, kisses Cristiano’s coarse stubble below his lips, the perfect round point of his chin. Cristiano buries his fingers in the messy hair, and Gareth goes on with his kisses down his neck, crawling back lower on the bed.

 

When he reaches Cristiano’s chest, he lifts his head, takes Cristiano’s hand from the top of his head and lifts it gently. He searches to catch Cristiano’s eyes with his gaze and makes sure he looks the Portuguese in the eye before he speaks. “What if you tried to keep your hands to yourself all on your own this time?” he suggests and earns a wide smile.

“I’ll try”, Cris promises.

Gareth smiles right back at him.

 

Cristiano’s legs are heavy over Gareth’s shoulders, the musky smell of his crotch is almost pungent but it makes it even better, it’s intense and sexy. The blunt head of the fleshy hard cock pushes to the back of his throat so harshly it will leave a burn that will keep his voice hoarse and husky for the rest of the night.

Gareth has the lube handy, he makes his fingers slippery and slides one in, not letting the cock out of his mouth one inch. He feels the muscle ring of Cristiano’s hole around his finger, hears the gasps and encouraging whispers.

He adds another finger, explores, caresses and strokes. He knows he can do this. He knows it from the way Cristiano responds; he sees his lips moving, blabbering like reciting a prayer but not one of fear but blissful anticipation; he hears his heavy breath, a gasp turning into an approving moan.

Most of all, he feels; the hard-muscled buttocks both sides of his hand live and sway a slow dance for him, the thighs and legs flex around him, the hears the drag and rustle of sheets as Cristiano’s toes curl on them.

He lets Cristiano’s cock out of his mouth with a slow lick, lets his tongue snake around his scrotum, drags his long narrow fingers inside Cris, making him shake and moan.

He props himself up a notch, one of Cristiano’s legs slides down to the bed from his shoulder, the other gets a mild stretch as he pushes it up. Cris seems to like that, too, he moans at the extra friction the position gives to him as Gareth’s knuckles stroke the inside curve of his buttock.

“ _Oh Gaz please, so good –“_

“You’re fucking beautiful, Cris, so hot, what do you want?” Gareth whispers.

Cris squirms to intensify the feeling of the twisting, stretching motion of Gareth’s three fingers inside him, fucks himself onto them, lets out hoarse breaths. Sweat beads on the skin of his flat, tight lower belly, Gareth notices it as salty moisture on his lips.

“What do you want, baby?” Gareth asks again, this time out loud, the melodic Welsh accent soft in the murky air.

“Oh bebe, fuck, please, that’s – “ Cris’ voice crumbles into a long moan. “Do it, Gaz, I fucking want you inside me,” comes out in heavily exhaled huffs, “Now.”

Gareth manages to make his moves with no extra fuss, despite his racing heart and his faint, dizzy head. He folds his legs under himself, sits on his knees, wipes the extra lube from his hands to his erect cock – it’s so rock hard it would normally be close to painful but he’s been so focused on Cristiano he’s completely ignored it – and guides it to the right place.

Cris is so ready, his hips make an impatient little buck towards Gareth and Gareth dares to push in in one smooth glide, it’s a blessed surprise how easy it is because the heat and the squeeze are simultaneously so intense, something completely different to anything he’s ever felt on his cock but it’s so good. He doesn’t have to think about his moves, he hasn’t have to think, _period_ , his body knows what to do, his body knows how to love.

The angle isn’t the best possible, he will feel the strain later, but it’s good enough, it’s good enough for both of them; he realizes it when he glances down, Cristiano is immersed in pleasure, his eyes are closed, he moans from between parted lips, says his name head thrown back. Then the eyes open and meet his, the lips flash him an ecstatic smile before turning to let out another wailing moan.

It’s flesh spanking and slamming on sweaty skin, the lube squelching; not pretty but raw and angular and needy, the final thrusts in quick succession; coming uncoordinated and sloppy but at the some point, eventually, judging from the wet slick mess, if not simultaneously, at least together, in the same love-high burst of release, physical and emotional.

“The best packing day ever”, Cris mumbles into the sweaty, messy hair on Gareth’s temple.

Gareth would giggle but he’s too tired. He dozes off with a happy hum on his lips.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merrie and relaxing holidays lovelies! Hope you all are buzzing on some chocolate / champagne / mulled wine high!


	22. If we make it through december

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From Halloween to New Year.

 

Gareth has to admit he feels a bit stupid as he brushes his finger on the surface of Cristiano’s blender that stands boldly on his kitchen countertop.

Cris had dug it out of the box in the morning, rummaged through his freezer for the last remnants of frozen berries and mango cubes and created some yummy, thick liquid breakfast. Gareth had helped him clean the pitcher and the blades, and Cris had reassembled the thing and handed it his way.

“You sure? You don’t want it?” one eyebrow slightly higher than the other, eyes darted at him from under them.

At home Gareth had pushed his old one in the corner, in the shadow of the wall cabinets, hoping that nobody would ask why he had two.

Stupid, but did he have a choice?

 

“Can you come shopping with me?” Chris Gunter asked Gareth the next week, tying his shoelaces in the dressing room after the morning training.

“What?” Gareth replied distracted, looking up from the plaster he was ripping off his finger.

“Just some appliances shop,” Chris said, straightening his back from the tied laces, looking at him with a hint of uneasy plea. “Just distract the staff with your blue eyes if they try to sell me something I don’t need. Something too posh. Or some cheap rubbish.”

Gareth had agreed with a shrug, not asking more, highly uncertain if he was up to the task but happy to accompany Chris, a friend’s company a welcome distraction from thinking about Cris.

“So, what are you buying?”  Gareth asked once they were out on the street.

“A blender,” Chris said and sighed.  “We always talked about buying one with Aaron but it was… ‘I’ll buy it, you don’t have to’ or ‘we’ll grab one tomorrow’ but then ‘oh shit, we forgot’. We just never got to it and now… well, obviously, I don’t have to wait for his opinion anymore.”

Gareth nodded in sympathy. “Adulting is hard,” he said. Then his face lit up and he turned to Chris. “A blender? I have one extra.”

 

So, now he doesn’t have two of them anymore but he still feels a tad stupid when he catches himself touching such a mundane inanimate object so longingly.

Cristiano has traveled to Paris already and Gareth is stuck in London. The league is in a halt when crème de la crème of the football world are gathered under flashing lights and pompous gala décor to hear who is the top dog of the year, the one above the rest.

Take a wild guess.

Gareth doesn’t mind, really, that Cris didn’t invite him to be his plus one at the Ballon d’Or ceremony. Awards galas are not his thing. Not as much as Cristiano’s, anyway, so he really, really doesn’t mind.

And he has tons of other things to do in the turn of November to December.

Like football – he I so close to participating in his first win.

 

Things have been on turmoil, and last month has been like getting used to playing in a new club. Sacking Juande Ramos was, in the end, expected, but sacking the most of the management team was – a wake up call, at least.

After Ramos, Harry Redknapp has been… Gareth would hate to admit how familiar and _homely_ it is to have a Brit as a boss. His system, yes, for one, but other things too. The tone of his voice, the flow of words have had a tendency to throw Gareth back to his – well, he shouldn’t say youth at nineteen, but younger years, the coaches and trainers he has had around since childhood, since really getting into football.

The change has led to some wins (not ones where Gareth would have been on the pitch, but nothing close to the performances that kept them on the bottom of the league back in September). Gareth is optimistic, in an alert, ready-to-go way. He has a sense that the changes are leading them to something better.

 

Besides, having fun with Cristiano has not been completely off the table. In October, Gareth suddenly ran into Brandon Lucas, the PR guy, in a pre-game meet-and-greet where Brandon was with a group of his clients.

“How are you doing, Gareth?” he asked by a side table, and Gareth suddenly lost his manners and instead of answering with some cheerful, polite niceties he sighed and, after a while, was pouring the sympathetic executive his worries and frustrations over his and Cristiano’s situation.

“We’re still so good whenever we’re together but,” he shrugged helplessly, arms spread wide, “It’s like we _never are_ ,” he complained.

He made sure he didn’t slip out anything referring to Cristiano’s apparent transfer, and was grateful Brandon didn’t mention Real Madrid either.

“Well, it’s Halloween soon,” Brandon said, “If you guys don’t have plans, I’d love to see you at our Halloween party. It’s strictly private, no media, nobody can even post to their own blogs or Facebook about it and I promise you, it’s gonna be a blast. We’re renting a castle, and there’ll be a DJ, a band, circus performers, drag queens and of course –“ Brandon put on a spooky voice, “ _Horror dungeon_. Everything silly and fun. Don’t forget a costume.”

 

To Gareth’s surprise, Cristiano is really into the idea.

He raved over it one of those exhausting nights when he had driven to London to be with Gareth, like it was not trouble to drive back to Manchester in the morning. He fell asleep grinning like an idiot and continued in the morning.

Gareth woke up to his bed rocking and squeaking under a hefty mass of well-defined muscle. Cristiano bounced on his hands and knees next to him like a fidgety child who can’t wait for his parents to wake up.

“Gaz, Gaz, I have a great idea for a couple costume. Football kits.”

Gareth cracked an eye open and squinted at him gingerly. “Is that what you call imagination, Cris? You’ve taken too many headers.”

Cris pouted and hit him with a pillow. Gareth took it and stuffed it under his head to prop himself upright. “We _are_ footballers. The idea of Halloween costumes is to be something different.”

“That’s what I’m saying! I’ll be you and you’ll be me!”

Gareth pondered the suggestion for a moment. His pensive face melted into a lit-up smile. _Couple_. It was a sweet word. And dressing as each other – was there a more _couple_ thing to do?

“Get in! We should do it.”

“I told you it was a great idea. You have to get me one of your jerseys and shorts. And oh, those striped socks! They’re great.”

“But won’t get a spray tan.”

Cristiano shifted on the bed, lifted a leg and a hand over Gareth, bracketing him beneath himself. He grinned wolfishly. “Oh yes. I hadn’t even thought of that. Thank you. You will get a spray tan.”

 

Gareth didn’t get a spray tan. He was more worried about his hair and ears: if he’d cut his hair as short as Cristiano’s, they’d stick out of his head like in all his school photos. He had it trimmed a bit and hoped that styling it with a proper amount of hair gel would do the trick.

Cristiano, on the other hand, came to his flat on the day of the party and dug a wig out of a bag.

“Ricky got this for me in a costume shop. He showed them your pic and they gave him this,” Cris said and grinned.

Gareth looked at the tag that hung from the edge of the dark mop of fake hair and burst out in laughter.

“Liam Gallagher? Oh my God, do I have Oasis hair?”

 

It was a fun night, a carefree night, enough show and spectacle, darkness and dancing to push away any thoughts of the real world.

On the other hand, Gareth thinks, what is real world when it comes to the two of them? Isn’t their relationship good enough as it is, as a means to have fun whenever they can, keeping in touch in the meantime in ways they can fit into their lives, between the routines and surprises of two busy, ambitious careers?

It has to be. Sharing every little detail of everyday life can’t be the only way to make a relationship work.

 

Gareth opens the TV just in time for some outside footage, cameras and microphones pointed at Cristiano who is being hurried inside by his protecting crew.

He looks so good. He looks even better, flawless, when the winner is announced. The vote has been a landslide for the Premier League superstar, the achievements of Ronaldo’s staggering season are undisputed.

He rehearsed an acceptance speech in English with Gareth, getting sweaty and nervous. There’s no sign of it now, they make it easy for him; he gets to answer in Portuguese to easy, friendly questions presented to him in French, interpretation comes in handy in the universe of the global game.

 

A week later Cris presents the shining trophy to the Old Trafford stands who cheer at their Ronnie.

A few days, and Gareth witnesses from the bench Cristiano scoring on his team. It’s disallowed, and the game ends in a goalless draw.

They barely greet, a quick stolen kiss outside the dressing rooms; Cris doesn’t stay in London for the night. No time: he’s flying to Japan next, to play (and win) in the Club World Cup, then back to Britain, for the ultimate working holiday of every Premier League footballer.  For, after egg-nog drunkenness and the queen’s speech, relaxing with the Boxing Day match is the privilege of every football-loving Briton.

  

* * *

 

December is madness, Cristiano thinks. When does that thought occur to him, he couldn’t tell later: at some point, days, as spectacular as they are, start to blend into each other. It’s safe to say that in the calendar every date of that month could be circled for something extra.

Of course it all starts the best possible way; Ballon d’Or is something he will not forget, or mix with any other highlight of his life. The round stage under hot lights, his family sitting on their own row, everyone beaming with pride. The shine of the heavy trophy, reflection of his own face distorted on its golden surface.

Crowds around him in Paris. Interviews. More interviews after the ceremony.

Travel back. Game. Cameras on him, lifting the Golden Ball for the home crowd to see, much like the Champions League trophy half a year back; this time something individual, something of his own.

 

He barely has the time to kiss his sweet Welsh prince when they meet on White Hart Lane. Cris is in a hurry, they’re preparing to fly halfway across the globe to Yokohama, Japan, to play for the title of the best football club in the world, just like they needed the jet lag only days before Christmas.

 

He doesn’t perform too badly on Boxing Day despite Stoke players being all over him like hounds after a fox. A free kick going just inches wide doesn’t cost them the points, Tevez’ early goal is enough for a win.

In his last game of the year he gets more riled-up by similar aggression from Middlesbrough’s side but dodges a booking despite clashing with Emanuel Pogatetz.

 

Perhaps his golden, wondrous year would deserve to end with a bang, and his mother and siblings certainly try to make it so, organizing a party with plenty of people enjoying food, music, dance, champagne and, to mark the new year, some spectacular fireworks.

Cristiano excuses himself at nine PM and goes to bed. Half past he is fast asleep.

When he wakes up, 12 hours later, it’s 2009.

 


	23. Crash

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nice to be back! 
> 
> I created my ao3 profile exactly 18 months from yesterday and tomorrow is the year-and-a-half anniversary of posting the first chapter of my first fic, so I felt obliged to get something new up for a read.

* * *

 

 

 

“You hang up first. You need to get going.”

“No, you need to get going. You have a longer ride.”

“But yours is slower. London traffic is worse.”

“No it isn’t! Manchester is just as bad.”

Lounging in the bed, engaged in a variation of one of the oldest conversations known to mankind. Cristiano wouldn’t give in but the bleep in his ear in the middle of the call is the last alarm snooze that tells him that he REALLY needs to get up if he wants to be in Carrington on time for the training. He knows he’s already missed the chance for the extra preparation he likes to do, but since his boyfriend has called him to tell about the dream he had last night, that included some external use of coconut flavored jello, he hasn’t really been able to get up at the first alarm like he almost always does.

 

Last glance in the mirror, forcing a smile on his face instead of a frown, slightly irritated of hanging up first. _I won’t be mad at Gaz for making me late, I won’t,_ he psyches himself up. _It will be a good training day. I’m not running late._

He recognizes Edwin van der Sar’s Bentley on the road, driving ahead of him, and steps on the gas. If he overtakes their goalkeeper, at least he won’t be to last man to arrive. The thought makes him grin, and he laughs at Edwin as he speeds past him.

He keeps checking the rear view mirror to see if van der Sar is still on his tail when the road dives under the Manchester airport runways. It’s unlikely that Edwin will overtake his Ferrari in the tunnel but he can never be too sure. Is the car behind him still the Bentley or has someone been able to cut in between them? Cris squints to make out the view on the mirror clearly enough.

From the corner of his eye he sees there’s something off with the view through the windshield but before his brain processes the sight the whole car jerks sideways from a sudden hard hit. He hears metallic crashes and screeches and a violent bang that echo loudly from the stone walls of the tunnel.

There is another, eerily vibrating echo of the noise and it comes from the body of his car, because it _is_ the body of his car that jerks and crashes and screeches. A nauseating crackle from the windshield when the laminated safety glass folds in like paper, he expects shards of glass raining down onto his lap but the shattered glass keeps together.

His chest hits the seatbelt, it chafes him hard as a whip.

Then it’s all silent, only the smell of heated iron and burning rubber in the air, and the pain in his chest where it’s been pressed to the seatbelt, and he hears himself breathing heavily even though he hasn’t been exercising at all. Steam rises from the hood of the car, he sees it through the shattered glass, is it dangerous? Along with the smells of burned rubber and hot steel, does it mean his car might catch fire? Is this how he dies?

Cristiano forces his body to work. His fingers are cold when he opens the seatbelt and the door and gets up from the car on stiff, wooden legs. He walks around the car to the narrow pavement, looking at his battered red beauty.

He hears police sirens, and lights flash blue and red on the tunnel walls. A police officer walks to his side and starts asking questions, he answers calmly, dropping words, foreign but familiar to him, one by one like drops of cool water. A man and a woman step down from an ambulance, his shirt gets unbuttoned, his chest touched, he lets it happen, lets the latex gloves dance on his carefully sculpted pecs, over his ribcage, his collarbones.

“Dun with the questions? Would you come for a check-up, love?” The first question is directed to the police officer, the second to Cristiano. He’s used to the intimate words in these people’s speech over his years but it still feels a bit off.

He follows the duo to the back of the ambulance, wants to sit up, he isn’t that hurt, he isn’t _injured_ , it would be hell. He only agrees to lie on the stretcher because he’s told he would need to wear a seatbelt if he wants to sit.

 

“I have to go,” Cris says after the trauma CT scan. He feels all right, at least enough to get back in the saddle, back to training. He doesn’t know what has happened to his car, the wreckage has probably been hauled away. He needs to call someone about it, and get a ride.

He pats over his jacket for the phone, he doesn’t remember which pocket he usually keeps it in. He’s just about to turn on his steps to claim it from the emergency room when it comes back to him: it’s on the passenger seat, or was, he tossed it there when he sat in the car.

 

Cristiano’s name catches Gareth’s eye on the team lunch break. It runs on the “breaking news” bar on the bottom of the TV screen. He goes through the few last days in his mind to try and guess what the headline is about before the text comes on again: Transfer rumours? League Cup recap?

A few seconds later he wishes it had been something so mundane, so trivial, so predictable.

_Ronaldo crashes Ferrari on way to training._

Gareth has been lifting a glass to his lips but is suddenly unable to drink. He puts the glass back on the table with shaky hands, some water spills on his fingers. He pays no attention to it, lowers the wet hand to his lap, drops soak into the fabric of the tracksuit bottoms.

 _Uninjured._ The word offers a bit of relief, but sparse running sentences on a muted television are still not too helpful. Gareth excuses himself, leaves his food, finds a quiet corner in one of the empty corridors of the training complex and slumps down with his phone.

A call to Cris goes straight to the unpersonalized voicemail.  He tries the landline and his heart jumps for a silly little moment of hope when it’s picked up.

It would be too much to wish it was Cris.

“ _… Tou?”_ Gareth recognizes Dolores despite the wary, questioning tone of her voice, like she wasn’t sure if she can answer the phone there, or worried of what she might hear answering it.

When Gareth asks about Cristiano, Dolores offers little reassurance.

“You don’t worry,” she says, and goes on in a confusing mix of English and Portuguese that Gareth thinks is basically her saying that Cris has seen a doctor and was not hurt.

He sighs and hangs up. Wayne Rooney doesn’t answer and Gareth has run out of choices.

His feet move on the training pitch on their own accord and he can get to some tricky passes but misses more than a few easy ones. Redknapp shouts at him, he nods in apology, hangs his head and tries harder. Chris Gunter sends him sympathetic glances that he notices but can’t really reciprocate.

Gareth has never wished for the practice to pass quickly more than now.

 

It’s dark when Gareth pulls up at Cristiano’s gate. He makes eye contact at the camera, peeking through his windshield, and the gate jerks slightly and starts its slow opening swing.

He parks on his usual spot, climbs the stone steps to the front door and goes in. Dolores comes to the entrance hall, looking alarmed.

“Gareth,” she says, the ‘r’ a soft trill, “I… surprise. You have games.”

Gareth shrugs and drops his shoulders anxiously. “Where’s Ronny?”

Dolores casts a quick glance to the upwards curving staircase. “He needs rest.”

Gareth hears Cristiano’s voice from upstairs, he yells something from a distance in Portuguese, Gareth recognizes it as a question. Dolores answers, and a sound of steps follows her reply through the ceiling, a determined run from above them.

Cris trots down the stairs barefoot, in white Nike shorts and black Emporio Armani polo shirt, shoots past his mother and throws his arms around Gareth. He swings on his feet clung to him, wrapped around him like a giant monkey.

“Oh Gareth, Gareth. I can’t believe you came,” he repeats in a husky voice, and Gareth senses moisture on the cheek Cristiano has pressed to his. Cris presses kisses to his temple and his cheek.

Gareth would love to be cradled in Cristiano’s embrace but he backs to an arm’s length to get a real look at Cris. Cristiano takes a deep breath through his nose and sucks in his teeth, wiping his eyes with one hand. He looks teary, but it seems he’s more emotional than aching. “I had an accident,” he says in a fragile voice.

Gareth can’t help chuckling because Cris says it like he’s not sure if the news have reached Gareth.

“I heard,” he says. “It was on the telly. And the internet. And on the radio. And…”

Cris puts a finger over Gareth’s lips, cups his face and strokes his cheekbones with his thumbs. “I’m sorry I didn’t reach you, you… My phone went with the car and I don’t –“ he looks suddenly uncomfortable – “I don’t remember your number and it’s not listed. I tried.” Cris bites his lip. “Sorry.”

Gareth can’t help smirking at Cristiano’s untypically embarrassed face. “No, silly! You were in a car crash!” He puts his hand on the side of Cristiano’s neck. “I’m just happy to see you alive. I’d rather drive up here a million times for it than have you just calling me on the phone.”

Cris smiles back at him, eyelashes stunning black bunches, clung together with tears. “You want something? Drink? Hungry?”

Gareth lifts his hand to a protest. He has spent a part of his drive devouring a Whopper meal with a milkshake behind the wheel but Cris doesn’t have to know about his criminally unhealthy stress eating habits. “No, I’m okay.”

Cris looks almost disappointed and casts a cautious look at his mom. “Are you sure? I mean we already ate but there is surely some still in the fridge.”

“No, really. Just water or something.” He’s a bit thirsty after the fries.

“Okay then,” Cris nods and turns his gaze to his mother. “I think we’ll manage,” he says to her and continues something in fast Portuguese. Dolores squints at her son, pursing her lips but breaks into laughter that leaves a luminous smile on her face and gives Gareth a short answer he doesn’t understand.

“In the morning, then,” she says to Gareth, the warmth of the smile not cooling one bit.

It is rare, and Gareth knows he’s getting a special treatment. It may be because of the situation, but he still cherishes it.

 

“How are you feeling, Cris?” Gareth asks, sipping water in the kitchen. Cris shrugs, not saying a word.

”God, I was so worried,” Gareth continues, “– I was hoping the news wouldn’t be real but the pics kept coming on every site and all over the news… How bad was it?”

Cris stretches his neck from side to side, sneering with one corner of his mouth. “I’ve been hit worse on the pitch, really,” he says finally. “No bones are broken, they put me in that tube machine. Scan.  I’m just a little sore… inside, in the muscles, all over. Not much. Just some. Like if you run or jump into somebody really hard. The same.” Cristiano’s lips curve up in the middle and he shrugs. “I’ll recover.”

Gareth puts his empty glass on the table and studies Cristiano’s face with a keen eye.

“No marks or bruises,” he says. “You really didn’t get a scratch.”

Cristiano shrugs lopsidedly and touches his chest. “Here, a bit,” he says. “The safety belt.” He stands up from his chair and takes Gareth’s hand. “I’ll show you. In the bedroom,” he says and pulls Gareth up. The hand is warm and the lead so easy to follow.

 

“Can I look?” Gareth asks warily, hands loosely on the hem of Cristiano’s shirt in his bedroom.

“Sure,” Cris nods, and Gareth peels the soft black jersey slowly upwards, fingers brushing the toned abs, keeping his touch as gentle as he can, afraid to hurt.

Cristiano flinches as Gareth’s finger accidentally butts into a sore spot and Gareth clutches the bunched shirt apologetically. “Sorry”, he mumbles and looks at the diagonal row of purple bruises, a narrow dotted streak of red on one side where the pressure of the edge of the belt has been enough to break the skin through the shirt.

Cris lifts his hands up and Gareth strips the shirt off, looking Cris in the eye. “Poor baby,” he says and bows down to blow cool air on the bruise, as gently as he can.

Cris cups his chin with a few fingers and lifts his lips to a kiss instead. They let it grow intense slowly, organically, until it’s a wet, hungry dance of tongues and lips.

“Oh God, Cris,” Gareth whispers into the kiss, “It was a fucking nightmare when I didn’t know what had happened. I was afraid I’d lose you.”

Cris presses a row of kisses from Gareth’s lips, over his cheek to his ear. “You’ll never lose me, baby,” he says, nibbling his earlobe. “Not fucking ever.”

The nibbles tickle and it’s a welcome, light feeling that distracts any disbelief Gareth has in Cristiano’s words.

“I’m not even half ready to let you go, Gaz,” Cris murmurs into his ear, and his hand is hard and heavy on Gareth’s cock, feeling it through his pants, stroking it, and Gareth can’t help the little moans that escape his mouth. Cristiano’s breath on his ear is as hot as his words. “You’re gonna fuck me senseless tonight, and so many times after tonight, to the end of time. I’m not ready to lose you, and you’re not losing me.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anybody there? I'd love to hear why you are still reading / have started to follow this story, and if there is something you'd like to see in it, or read more of.
> 
> Sunny days, lovelies!


	24. Resurrection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Helping Cristiano recover from the crash.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had some trouble with ao3 today and just to be safe, wanted to post this update, as short as it may be.
> 
> Continues straight from the previous chapter.
> 
> \--  
> Edited the end a bit August 13th, 2018. I had forgotten a FA cup game, now there's a short reference as the setting of the end scene.

 

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

"You're not hurting me, Gaz. Just keep touching me."

Cris needs it, nothing Gareth does can hurt him, if he happens to brush or poke the fresh bruise from the seatbelt it passes quickly, it's more important his hands and mouth don't leave his body for a second.

They have got so far so quickly, after Cristiano’s black T-shirt has been dropped to the floor, Gareth’s shirt has accompanied it, and it’s good Gareth has been in such a hurry to leave for Manchester he hasn’t fussed about clothes too much, his navy blue (or Spurs blue) sweatpants are easily dropped down.

The vast house is gloriously quiet – the guest bedroom Dolores uses during her stays is on the other wing. She is probably either going to sleep or watching Portuguese TV with headphones, which are more often than not the same thing.

Cristiano backs in soft salsa steps towards the bed, drawing Gareth with him, hands on his naked hips. Gareth follows the lead in close proximity, step, step, step.

Until Cristiano’s shin hits the side of the bed, he lounges down gracefully as large cat, shifts to the middle of the bed on his back. Gareth follows him, crawling on all fours and bows down to kiss him when his head reaches the pillow.

 

“I’m glad you’re alive,” Gareth whispers between kisses, leaning to one hand, the other sliding on Cristiano’s body. It roams from the neck down, not hasty but not hesitating a bit, either, stops to curl around the base of Cristiano’s cock.

“Me too,” Cris breathes out, “I’m happy to be alive for this. Fuck, don’t stop,” he adds, bucking his hips upward to the hand, he realizes he  _needs_  to feel it. He needs to feel  _alive_.

Gareth doesn’t stop. The curled hand drags slowly up his cock, back down, the mouth opening for an intensifying kiss.

"I won't stop," Gareth whispers. "Definitely not. Not when I have my hands on the most wanted body in the world."

He moves his hand at the pace of his words and it feels incredibly sexy, up and down the shaft of Cristiano's standing cock, to his inner thigh, stroking it teasingly slowly.

"Oh please," Cris murmurs. Another impatient buck upwards doesn't get Gareth move his hand a bit faster or harder; instead, Gareth narrows his eyes and places his other hand on Cristiano's hipbone, steadying him down.

"Easy, love," he smiles. "Let me enjoy this."

 

Cris lets his head sink to the pillow, half frustrated, but not wholly because... damn, those hands feel amazing, awakening the sensory spots on his skin, roaming closer. He can feel how his groin tightens with every brush those delicate pale fingers make towards his crotch as they send rushes of blood towards his hard cock.

A moist drop is forming on its tip, he can feel it and gets almost embarrassed. He keeps his eyes pressed shut, at least then he won't show his shame, and oh, a fingertip sweeps the wetness, a cool breeze hits the spot where it spreads the precum on the delicate thin skin.

Another oh, a wet dollop lands on the head of his cock, he almost twitches at the surprise but plays along, suppressing the reaction. The surprise is only pleasant and expected anyway. Gareth has spat on him and it's only a promise of more pleasure.

It is a promise being kept already: a hand smoothing the fresh slickness down his cock, another hand moving from his hip to his thigh to his taint to his ass, rubbing it sternly and warmly, so secure and yet so arousing.

A warm presence of Gareth's upper body pressing down, breath on his cheek. A finger circling around his hole, making him curl his hips, open his legs, offer his ass.

"So fucking gorgeous, Cris," Gareth's lovely voice thick and breathy in his ear, and Cris moans out loud.

Gareth keeps talking, slippery hot hand up and down his cock, fingers spreading his cheeks apart, the one slick with his own precum a teasing flutter on the rim of his hole, and a whine escapes his lips.

"GOD, Gaz! Fu-fuck!" he pants out.

"Tell me what tou want, baby. So good, baby, tell me what you need. I want to hear my man. My fucking perfect baby."

Oh how good Gareth is at this, the vivid cadences of his voice low and husky, his praise just on the right side of flattering. He makes Cris feel like a god of sex, pleased and worshipped to the core.

He's so ready.

"I need - oh!" a moan cuts off his own words, the finger slides just slightly in, thumb pressing his perineum - "Fuck me babe, Gaz, get your cock here, here..." he can't help taking his own hand to his ass, next to Gareth's like he'd forgotten half of the words he knows and needs to gesture instead, "I need you inside me, please, just... fuck, fuck hard."

 

A blunt cockhead replaces the teasing finger, pushes slowly in, gives him a few seconds to adjust. He bites his lip to stifle a moan, oh fuck does he have to remember there's company in the house right now, all he wants is to surrender to the pleasure of being filled, let go. Luckily the thought leaves as soon as Gareth slams home and gives him a ride of his life. 

He may moan, curse or giggle, his flesh may be spanked harder than pork at butcher's and it's FINE, it's more than fine. Gareth plays with the angle and pace but takes nothing easy on Cristiano's bruised body, not a bit.

Gareth goes rigid inside him; he feels it, grabs his lover's buttocks to draw him close as he comes.

Sweet Gareth doesn't stop there. As soon as he catches his breath back, rolled to Cristiano's side, he jerks him off with his slick hand, nibbling his ear and the side of his neck, until he comes, shoots hot streams upwards like a fountain, sweet and nasty at the same time.

 

And definitely, definitely  _alive_.

 

* * *

 

Not many days later Cristiano Ronaldo is on the news again. Sky Sports claims to have a document that seals the deal of his transfer to Real Madrid. There's talk about money, too - tens of millions of pounds, sums unprecedented in the world of sports.

Cristiano refuses to comment. He keeps working, fists clenched tight more often than Gareth remembers seeing him, only curses the reporter, Guillem Balagué, a few times in private.

It bothers Cris, Gareth senses, that he doesn't know who has leaked the information and why. Who could benefit from it and how?

He doesn't score for the next three games. 

 

“What about your birthday?” Gareth asks as January is ebbing out to its close. They haven't seen for two weeks now but the fourth round of the FA Cup puts them on the same pitch. Despite the frustration after United pushes the Spurs out of the competition, Gareth stays behind in Manchester after the game.

"Talk about it at home, okay?" Cris says behind the wheel.

Cristiano has in no way been his best self in the match, drawn to the bench only minutes after Gareth was subbed himself. Gareth can see why, as Cris lets them in after the drive and flounders straight to the bathroom, gagging sounds echoing soon from the tiles behind the closed door. No vomiting, apparently, but it's close.

Cris comes out, hand on his stomach. Gareth thinks he might as well try to take his thoughts off his poorly state with some fun party planning.

"So, your thoughts about the birthday?" 

Cristiano looks tired. “No party. I need to stay in shape.”

There is fear and vulnerability in his voice that Gareth doesn’t think he’s ever heard and is pretty sure very few people in the world have heard altogether.

“For fuck’s sake, Cris,” he says angrier than he intended to. “Nobody’s more in shape than you, and nobody has ever worked harder for it than you. I’m not suggesting a fucking drunken three-night bender, just asking what you’d like!”

Cristiano sits down on the bottom stair. His posture is rigid, he draws his knees closer to himself like a shield.

“They have expectations for me,” he says. “People. I’m not going to let them down.”

 _He’s saying he’s not going to let himself down,_  Gareth realizes.

He senses that the price tag Cristiano has implied to intimidates him, it sets the bar so high. The world has acknowledged him as the best with trophy after trophy but is it enough for Cris? He can’t go on the Bernabéu as the same world class star footballer he has been shaped to on Old Trafford.

He has to go there as a messiah, as a miracle. No less will do.

It’s not healthy, it fucking isn’t.

Like Cris is going to listen to Gareth if he says that to him.

 

In his next game, a 5-0 slaughter over West Bromwich Albion, Cristiano Ronaldo scores twice.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope it added something nice to your day! 
> 
> Feedback is fuel, I appreciate all kinds of it. Don't be afraid to point out errors.
> 
> I'm pob-lwc-caixa and badhockeymom on Tumblr.


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